


The People v. Louis Tomlinson

by Nichneven13



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Anal Sex, BFF Niall, Blow Jobs, Bottom Louis, Control Kink, Dom/sub, First Time, Flirting, Kink Negotiation, Liam and Louis have a difficult relationship, Louis has to work for it, M/M, Mutual Pining, No Zayn, Pet Names, Praise Kink, Secretary!Harry, Seduction, Shame kink, Top Harry, Under-negotiated Kink, Watching, Womanizer!Louis, gagging (sorta), glossed over sexual harrassment?, inappropriate workplace sex, laughing and joking a lot, lawyer!louis, safe words, way too much US legal terminology
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-19
Updated: 2016-12-23
Packaged: 2018-07-25 12:07:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 40,283
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7532155
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nichneven13/pseuds/Nichneven13
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Louis Tomlinson has a lot going for him: Success, riches, smarts, charm, ego, sex appeal. He knows these things and has no qualms about sharing amongst his co-workers and employees. But when a photocopy of Louis' latest workplace dalliance is found by his partners, he is given one last shot to have a secretary-- and NOT sleep with her. Or in this case, him. He may be straight, but Louis likes a challenge, and the way the New Guy is blushing, well. Game on.</p><p>Updates at least weekly-ish.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So this story is set in London, but I cannot be arsed to learn about the legal system across the pond, so I'm using US terminology and procedures. Truly, it does not matter in this story, unless you're hear for all the steamy, steamy Code Sections and hot-to-trot depositions. If you are, well. Sorry to disappoint.

Louis Tomlinson steps off the elevator that opens directly into the lobby of Cowell Sheeran & Tomlinson, LLP. The pretty receptionist—hired more for aesthetics than experience, Louis feels sure—smiles and bats her lashes at him. He nods his greeting, but speeds his steps to avoid engaging in conversation. Violet is strictly off limits to him. Or so say his law partners.

In fact, he’s under orders to ignore every single woman in the office. The married ones, too, as it turns out. He’d learned that salient fact after he’d fingered Marta from Accounting against the copier and accidentally left evidence in the form of spectacularly clear black and white photocopies. _Well done_ , Xerox.

“Come on, Louis,” Ed chastised, handing over the stack of copies, some on A4 and a few on foolscap. It was pretty artistic, if Louis is allowed to say so himself; there’s the line of Marta’s lacy white panties, crumpled and pushed to the side, three fingers buried deep. The thing is—the _problem_ is—Ed had recognized the rope and quotation marks inked on his wrist. Well, he probably shouldn’t have leaned on the big green button for leverage either. He _maybe_ should have walked away when Marta had shoved his hand up her skirt. “Marta just married Chad. You went to the wedding. You _knew_ this was wrong.”

“ _I_ didn’t get married,” Louis said, pressing a hand to his chest, carefully, so as not to crush his silk tie. He bats his eyes and smiles his very best innocent smile. “Shouldn’t you give Marta a telling off? _She_ attacked _me_.”

“And yet here we are,” Ed said darkly. “You are a partner at this firm. You cannot sleep with our employees.”

“Then hire some ugly ones,” Louis shot back.

Ed exhaled something deeper than a sigh and rubbed his eyes. Frustration, Louis easily identified with a self-satisfied smirk. “We hire the most qualified individuals—,” Ed started, but waved away the rest of what he’d already told Louis umpteen times before. “We both know you can pull any bird you want. Save your talent for after work.”

Louis eyed one of the photocopies showing Marta’s fingers grappling against the glass of the copier. Ah yes, she _had_ been desperate for something to hold onto as her orgasm ripped through her. Actually, Louis should be commended for wiping the wetness she’d left in her wake from the copier before he’d left the room. He was a fucking _saint_. One who made women ejaculate from his fingers alone, _thanks_. “In all fairness,” he said. “My time with Marta was after hours.”

“Don’t argue technicalities with me,” Ed snapped “Look, here’s the thing. We’re hiring you a new secretary. A _man_ , by the way. This is the last one, Louis. You fuck this one up and you’ll be stuck making your own appointments and fetching your own coffee.”

That seems fair. He’s actually surprised it’s taken them this long to make this decision. They’d long since replaced his paralegal(s) with a man and it’s worked very well for him. Liam is the best damn paralegal he’s ever had, or at least he thinks he is; it could be that he just hasn’t screwed Liam into distraction and tears. There is a little something to be said for professionalism in the workplace, he supposes.

“Liam will make my appointments,” Louis said in weak defense.

“Yeah, okay,” Ed threw back his head and laughed. “Let me know how that works out for you. In fact, buzz me before you ask him, I’ll bring popcorn.”

Louis knew he will never again ask Liam to serve as his secretary. He’d tried that once, after Rose left out in tears—no, was it Mae? Jessica? It may have been Elizabeth. Regardless, it hadn’t gone well. Liam had, of course, scheduled the depositions and the prep meetings with their client, but had called in sick for the next three days, leaving Louis to copy and Bates stamp all 793 pages of exhibits on his damn own. When Liam had returned—tan and well-rested, to boot—Ed and Simon laughed and dared Louis to ask Liam to bring him a cup of tea and biscuits.

Louis had decided against it. Even after a triple dog dare had been issued by Ed. Never let it be said that Louis is stupid.

So, yeah. Violet the Receptionist is off limits.

 

“Good morning, Mr. Tomlinson,” an unfamiliar voice calls out as Louis walks past with his eyes glued to the calendar on his phone.

Louis flicks his eyes up to see a young man sitting at the desk just outside his office door. He’s got a mop of curly brown hair, big green eyes, and wide smile. Louis blinks at him, taken back by the generalized adorability of the man. Somethings are universal, after all, and adorableness is one of those things. He doesn’t make the rules.

“I’m Harry,” the man stands— _Christ, he’s tall_ —and leans across his desk with his hand extended. “Harry Styles. I’m, erm, your new secretary? Liam needed a wee. He’ll be back in a mo’.”

“Yes,” Louis accepts the handshake. He’s not quite sure why the spaces between his fingers are sweating. “A _wee_ , you say?”

Harry’s cheeks burst into flame.

“I can’t believe I said wee,” Harry mutters with a shake of his head. He ducks his chin and chances a look at Louis from beneath lowered lashes. “What a knob.”

“Did you call me a _knob_?” Louis asks, losing the battle against an amused smile at Harry’s spreading blush. It reaches all the way down to the collar of his crisp white shirt. With his navy blue jacket, he’s the very picture of the French flag.

“Oh my god,” Harry covers his mouth with his hand and turns the blast of his horror struck eyes on Louis. “I’m so sorry,” he says from behind his hand. “Let me start again. Please?”

“How about this,” Louis backs away from the desk, angling toward his office. “I’ll just head in here. After you’ve called the fire department to extinguish the flames on your face, how about you grab us a couple of teas and we’ll have a proper chat, yeah?”

God almighty, the red on Harry’s face is _painful_. Perhaps Louis shouldn’t have taken the piss.

“Yes, sir,” Harry croaks and collapses into his chair, his limbs jerky and tense.

Louis takes pity on him and closes the door to his office without further comment. But once he’s in his office, he draws in a breath that shouldn’t be shaky. He wipes his weirdly sweaty fingers on his trousers and takes a seat behind his desk. He lines up the briefs he’d been reading last night with his blotter and sits back to wait.

But Harry doesn’t come in. Five minutes pass and then ten. Louis boots up his computer and checks his email. The thing with email is this: it’s a dying mode of communication. In the age of texts and tweets and snaps, email has become an aging grandmother, always bringing too much information and yet, not _enough_ information. He must get over a hundred a day, from clients, in-office staff, opposing counsel, Google Play recommendations, electricity bills, newsletters he’s sure Liam subscribed him to out of spite, and the occasional request from a Nigerian prince. It’s bollocks, is what it is. The wave of the future is the bloody phone call.

Still no Harry, but there is an email from Liam with a little red READ THIS NOW flag beside his name.

 

_From:      Liam Payne <LPayne@CowellSheeran.com>_

_To:        Louis Tomlinson <LTomlinson@CowellSheeran.com>_

_Date:      7/19/14  9:28 AM_

_Subject:   You broke the new guy. Already._

_What did you do to Harry? He hasn’t stopped blushing and stuttering since I got back to my desk._

 

There’s nothing for it; Louis throws his head back and laughs. He knows he’s attractive to both sexes. And he is relatively certain Harry bats for the other team—or at least for both teams. It’s always nice to have a little confirmation that his ego is quite warranted.

 

_From:      Louis Tomlinson < LTomlinson@CowellSheeran.com >_

_To:        Liam Payne <LPayne@CowellSheeran.com>_

_Date:      7/19/14  9:42 AM_

_Subject:   Re: You broke the new guy. Already._

_I am innocent in this one, mate. He told me you went for “a wee” and then called me “a knob.” All before I’d even opened my mouth. I’m waiting for him to come talk to me about the details of his job._

_\--_

 

_From:      Liam Payne <LPayne@CowellSheeran.com>_

_To:        Louis Tomlinson <LTomlinson@CowellSheeran.com>_

_Date:      7/19/14  9:44 AM_

_Subject:   Re: You broke the new guy. Already._

 

_No way. You are not to speak to him again today. I’m serious, Lou._

_\--_

 

_From:      Louis Tomlinson < LTomlinson@CowellSheeran.com >_

_To:        Liam Payne <LPayne@CowellSheeran.com>_

_Date:      7/19/14  9:48 AM_

_Subject:   Re: You broke the new guy. Already._

_I think I’ll take him to lunch to welcome him to the team._

_\--_

 

_From:      Liam Payne <LPayne@CowellSheeran.com>_

_To:        Louis Tomlinson <LTomlinson@CowellSheeran.com>_

_Date:      7/19/14  9:50 AM_

_Subject:   Re: You broke the new guy. Already._

_You will not!_

_\--_

 

_From:      Louis Tomlinson < LTomlinson@CowellSheeran.com >_

_To:        Liam Payne <LPayne@CowellSheeran.com>_

_Date:      7/19/14  9:51 AM_

_Subject:   Re: You broke the new guy. Already._

_Do try to remember that I am, in fact, the boss of you._

_\--_

_From:      Liam Payne <LPayne@CowellSheeran.com>_

_To:        Louis Tomlinson <LTomlinson@CowellSheeran.com>_

_CC:        Edward Sheeran <ESheeran@CowellSheeran.com>_

_Date:      7/19/14  9:54 AM_

_Subject:   Re: You broke the new guy. Already._

_Yeah, right. I’m copying Ed on this._

_\--_

 

_From:      Louis Tomlinson < LTomlinson@CowellSheeran.com >_

_To:        Liam Payne <LPayne@CowellSheeran.com>_

_Date:      7/19/14  9:55 AM_

_Subject:   Re: You broke the new guy. Already._

_Arsehole!_

_\--_

 

_From:      Edward Sheeran < ESheeran@CowellSheeran.com >_

_To:        Louis Tomlinson < LTomlinson@CowellSheeran.com >_

_CC:        Liam Payne <LPayne@CowellSheeran.com>_

_Date:      7/19/14  10:01 AM_

_Subject:   Re: You broke the new guy. Already._

_No lunches, no after work drinks, no closed door meetings. Just NO. Email contact only unless absolutely necessary and strictly relating to work._

_Thank you for keeping him in line, Liam._

_\--_

 

 

Well. Louis should probably feel chastened. Ed is not technically his boss, but he has a knack of lording his position as managing partner over his head. It’s not like Louis had wanted to manage the damn place himself and they had learned the hard way that Simon could not be trusted to interact with actual human beings. No, Simon was best at being a twat in the negotiation room. Or the courtroom. Or, you know, in general. Whatever, it worked for their billables.

Louis is their marketing director. He woos potential clients and sells their brand. And he’s good at it. Just last month, he’d scored huge when he landed the London Bridge Hospital. They will be handling all of their medical malpractice claims. Louis could practically hear the clinking of gold in his head. By the end of the year, he might could even fill a vault, Scrooge McDuck style, and go swimming in the money they’d earn.

So his charm is necessary, see? It is _not_ his fault that his charm is set to ON at all times. It certainly is not his fault if the volume is turned to 11, is it? And really, Ed only has himself to blame for this one. He _knows_ what Louis is like; he is practically _begging_ Louis to engage in a serious charm offensive on his new secretary.

Besides, Ed didn’t say he couldn’t take Harry out for before work coffee, now did he? With a wicked curl of his lips, he pulls his keyboard closer, hoping Harry has already been added to the email system.

 

_From:      Louis Tomlinson < LTomlinson@CowellSheeran.com >_

_To:        Harry Styles <HStyles@CowellSheeran.com>_

_Date:      7/19/14  10:13 AM_

_Subject:   Coffee?_

_We may have had a bit of a false start this morning. I am sure it was my fault and I would appreciate the opportunity to do it again. Perhaps we can meet at Lloyd’s around the corner tomorrow before work? Say 8AM? If you come, the treat would be mine._

 --

 

Satisfied with his subtle flirt, he hits send and sits back to wait for a reply. He should get to work. He’s got a new case from London Bridge to review; another set of surgical clamps left behind after abdominal surgery. But instead, he crosses his arms and waits.

 

_From:      Harry Styles <HStyles@CowellSheeran.com>_

_To:          Louis Tomlinson <LTomlinson@CowellSheeran.com>_

_Date:      7/19/14  10:15 AM_

_Subject:   Re: Coffee?_

_Jesus Christ, Louis, NO._

_/s/ Liam_

_P.S.  I’m at Harry’s desk to train him, remember? God, you’re thick._

 __

 

Well, huh. Louis smiles to himself and rubs his hands together. This hunt just got _interesting_. Let the games begin.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The completely unfamous poem Harry and Louis discuss (and quote) is found here: https://literarychronicles.wordpress.com/2012/01/19/poem-the-gentleman-of-ill-repute/
> 
> My absolute apologies to sweet Ms. Barbara.

The next morning, Louis arrives at the office with a bounce in his step and two steaming cups of tea from Lloyd’s in his hands. He’s earlier than he normally is, but he wants to be in his office when Harry arrives, bent over in serious work with his teeth in his bottom lip and his sexy librarian glasses perched on his nose. Or maybe he’ll lean back in his chair with a binder in his lap and tap his lips with an arm of his glasses. Whatever tableau he decides on, the important bits are his mouth and his glasses. He has a one hundred percent success rate when he uses the glasses + mouth combination. Really, it’s almost too easy.

He stops by Harry’s desk, which he’s already decorated with a bouquet of fresh wildflowers and a framed photograph of a passel of grinning people, with Harry smack in the middle, arm thrown around a shorter blond man. The other people are a blend of dark and light, as if they are two families blended all together for the sake of the two young men at the epicenter. Louis hmphs in distaste and pushes the keyboard as close to the monitor as possible so he can place one of the hot teas in its place. He opens the small drawer directly in front of him, hunting for a Post-It and a pen. His eyes catch on a wilted four-leaf clover and he pauses. It feels too intimate, looking through this whimsical window into Harry’s personality. Flowers, family, clovers; it’s just not on.

“Did you bring me coffee?”

Louis jerks away from the open drawer and stumbles a step away. Harry is standing at the edge of his desk, clutching a hot pink lunch box and a cup of something hot from Lloyd’s.

“Yes,” Louis says and then shakes his head. “No. I mean, well, it’s _tea_. But you have your own. I’ll just—I can just give it to Liam.”

“They gave me oolong,” Harry says. He looks nervous, standing before The Boss in his slim-fit black trousers, dark grey button up, and dark pink tie. “But I asked for Yorkshire. Is that Yorkshire? It smells like Yorkshire.”

“It is Yorkshire,” Louis confirms, pushing his hands in his pockets. He’s recovering from the shock of being caught out and is ready to play cat and mouse. “Toss that swill out; it’s polluting the air with its offensiveness.”

“Thanks,” Harry sets his own cup down on the edge of his desk and picks up the one Louis gave him. Through the spread of Harry’s long fingers, Louis sees—for the first time—the phone number scrawled just above the Lloyd’s logo with a curly _Samantha_ to go with it. Harry sees him looking and twists the cup up to eye level. Louis can see his eyes move quickly across the name and number. “What’s this, then?”

“Ah,” Louis coughs out a laugh. “That. Yes, well.”

“I’ve heard about you,” Harry tells him, smiling broadly enough that two dimples spring into existence. His eyes flash with mischief, washing away even the smallest trace of nerves. “You are a gentleman of ill repute.”

Louis feels his mouth drop open and swears it made an audible pop in the process. He has to pull it together and fast. He is not accustomed to losing ground in a battle of charm and flirtation and he is not about to start now.

“What vitality shall be sucked off him by the other lips,” Louis blurts out, desperately rattling off the first thing that came to mind. It’s a poem he read once or twice. “Is not worthy of the misadventure.”

“Yet be-moneyed, the scented gent of ill repute shall gladly pay in reddened cash,” Harry responds at once and then blushes. “I mean—wow. You know that poem?”

“ _You_ know that poem?” Louis counters.

“What’s this, then?” Liam calls as he approaches, a stern look on his face, unwittingly echoing Harry’s own greeting. “What did I say about the coffee, Louis? I said _no_.”

“But it’s tea,” Harry says helpfully, gently jiggling the cup at Liam and then lifting the cup he abandoned earlier. “He’s brought you one, too. Here.”

Louis’ eyebrows dart up before he schools his face back into a smirk. He’s got the new guy defending him? Oh yeah, this will be easy. “Yeah, Liam,” he says. “I brought you one, too. Oolong.”

“Oolong?” Liam sniffs at the opening in the lid. “I’ve never had oolong. Thanks.”

“It’s the least I could do for my selfless paralegal,” Louis says with beneficence. Liam shoots him an incredulous look, but takes a sip. “I like to take care of those who take care of me.”

“Thanks, Mr. Tomlinson,” Harry says softly.

“Oh my god,” Liam snorts out a laugh and shakes his head. “Don’t call him that. It’ll go to his head.”

Harry looks down at the cup in his hands, turning it slowly, but there’s a smile on his face. Louis classifies it as a coy.

“It’s all about respect,” Louis says and cocks his hip against Harry’s workspace. “You know, in the old days, paralegals treated their attorneys with admiration and loyalty. Perhaps you should try it sometime.”

“I’m loyal, you sod,” Liam says at once. He gives a pointed look at Harry and then directs it back at Louis. “I watch after you and make sure you don’t make mistakes that will end your career. And, by the way, I’m fairly certain attorneys of yore used to treat their paralegals graciously, with effusive praise and occasional free lunches.”

“I tried to take you both out for lunch yesterday,” Louis says, sliding onto the edge of Harry’s desk to let his feet dangle. “But _someone_ turned me down flat.”

“Yes, well, in the interest of protecting—”

“Lunch sounds good,” Harry interrupts, his smile still on display, but his head tilted up to look directly at Louis. “I’m free tomorrow. I’m meeting a friend today to sign our new lease, but yeah, tomorrow?”

The smile that stretches Louis’ mouth wide is automatic. He is so winning at this.

“I don’t think—” Liam starts.

“Tomorrow it is,” Louis says over him. “Make us a reservation, Harold.”

“Yes, sir,” Harry chirps.

“Oh my _god_ ,” Liam shakes his head and swipes his arms out in a no-no-no gesture. “Do _not_ call him _sir_. And Louis, his name is not even Harold, it’s just Harry. Now get in your office. Surely you have _something_ you can entertain yourself with so Harry and I can get to work.”

Truth of the matter is, Louis _does_ need to dictate a status report letter on that nicked ureter case. Thank god for Liam’s detailed chronology and all the little colored flags he puts on all the medicals so Louis can skip over the tripe to get to the relevant issues. Liam really is an amazing paralegal.

“Yes, yes,” Louis hops off the desk, picks up his own cup of now tepid tea and heads to his office. On the threshold, he glances over his shoulder to see Harry settling into his chair for the day. “Go boldly forth, lads, and conquer the day.”

 

 

 

“Did you always want to be an attorney?” Harry asks Louis as he chases salad around his plate. It’s chocked full of three different kinds of lettuce and more fruit and vegetables Louis has ever seen. His own salads, when he deigns to have them, are laden with cheese and bacon and creamy dressing; barely a salad at all.

“I’ve always been good at arguing,” Louis says with a shrug. “It was either become an attorney or end up in the clink.”

“The clink?” Harry laughs lightly and raises an eyebrow. “Sounds like someone’s been binge watching bad American crime dramas.”

“Guilty as charged,” Louis holds up his hands in surrender. “I’m currently in a show hole. I just finished all eleven thousand seasons of _Law & Order: SVU_ available on Netflix.”

“It’s disturbing, isn’t it,” Harry leans over the table a little, pressing his chest against the table ledge, dangerously close to his plate. “How many sexually based crimes occur in New York City? I mean, after eleven thousand seasons, you’d think their President would announce a state of emergency and bring in the military to restore sexual order. Right?”

“You would suggest a state of national sexual emergency, then?” Louis pushes his plate away and leans into his side of the table.

“Obviously,” Harry grins. And honest-to-god, Louis likes the new guy. He’d like to hang out and watch a match with him, maybe have a beer or a smoke. “The military could roll their tanks in and fire chastity belts from its cannons.”

“The soldiers could pass out condoms and diaphrams to the children on the street.”

“ _Exactly_.”

“You should write a letter to President Obama,” Louis smiles so hard he thinks he may have unintentionally given himself a set of new dimples to call his own. “He might would knight you.”

“Seems plausible.”

Louis rolls his teeth across his bottom lip, utterly charmed by the conversation. He’s largely forgotten his attempts to seduce Harry, but he cannot deny the hum of attraction in his blood. He’s not keen on men, generally speaking. Oh, he’s had a shag or two, mostly at summer camp or at uni, but it’d been a needs-based circumstance; an orgasm is an orgasm is an orgasm, that’s his motto. But Harry is very attractive; that cannot be denied.

“Louis,” a deep voice rumbles from behind him. “What fresh hell is this?”

“Ah, Simon,” Louis tilts his head back to look at his partner upside down. “Join us for lunch?”

“You’re needed back at the office,” Simon tells him stiffly, turns on his heel and then pauses. “Liam told me you were here. I am fairly certain you recall your conversation with Ed. Do heed his words, Louis.”

“Well,” Harry coughs into his hand and wipes his mouth with the cloth napkin from his lap. “I don’t think he likes me. Or maybe he doesn’t like you?”

“He likes me fine,” Louis sighs and signals a passing waiter to bring their bill. “He’s just grumpy. Like, always. He has no opinion of you yet, Curly.”

“Thanks for lunch,” Harry says sweetly. “It was nice to get to know you outside of the office where we can be a little more ourselves.”

“Yes,” Louis tucks his company credit card into the black check folder and hands it back to their waiter without ever looking away from Harry. “It’s nice to know I have a secretary with a propensity to ponder the world’s sexual crises. That could come in handy, you never know.”

“I suck at first impressions,” Harry bemoans, dropping his face into his hands. “And, apparently, second ones, too. I swear to God, I am not a pervert.”

“Don’t sell yourself short,” Louis says seriously, touching Harry’s elbow with fleeting fingers. “I’m sure with just a touch more practice, we could turn you into anything you want to be—pervert or otherwise. My _specialty_ is turning good people into just that.”

“Louis!” Simon barks from the lobby, making both men startle.

“That’s my cue,” Louis stands smoothly. He will have to catch the waiter up at the bar to sign the credit card slip. But he daren’t push Simon any further—seeing how the older man is standing sentry with crossed arms and a dour look. “I’ll see you back at the office, Curly.”

 

 

The next couple of weeks sail by in a flurry of discovery responses and witness interviews. The Taylor case has them all up to their eyeballs in letters, emails, calls, and pleadings. It’s times like this that leave Louis questioning his decision to become a lawyer. He has absolutely zero time for flirting, which leaves the office in a general state of wonderment. But dammit, despite what his coworkers and employees seem to believe—Louis is a world class attorney and takes his job very seriously. So he contents himself with leaving a cup of tea on Harry’s desk each morning with hastily penned drawings on yellow Post-Its. He notices that Harry has taped each drawing to the wall beside his desk. Louis is particularly proud of the little skateboarding stick figure.

On Monday, Louis had left an empty tic-tac-toe board on a Post-It. On Tuesday morning, Louis discovered the tic-tac-toe board in its original position, filled in with three red-ink Xs stroked on the diagonal. Dirty cheater. Louis squirrled it away in the top drawer of his desk, nestled in amonst the emergency ketchup packets and his roll of stamps.

On Wednesday, Harry ushers the last of the Taylor witnesses into his office with downcast eyes. Louis hones in on the splotchy pink on his cheeks and frowns.

“Excuse me, Mr. Cambridge,” he says, pushing out of his chair and following his secretary out of the office. Harry is heading toward the kitchen down the hall to fetch the customary tea tray they lay out for all of their visitors. Louis grabs his elbow before he can turn into the kitchen properly. “Hey, Harry, wait.”

“Hi,” Harry wipes at his eyes with the cuff of his sleeves and pastes on a watery smile. “Did you call me? I didn’t hear you; I’m sorry. Coffee instead of tea for Mr. Cambridge?”

“Sweetheart,” Louis trails his hand down from Harry’s elbow to his wrist. “Have you been crying? What’s happened?”

“It’s Barbara,” Harry blurts. His voice is deeper than Louis’ ever heard it—dark and rough, like the crags of a hidden cave in Wales.

“Who’s Barbara?” Louis asks. He cannot believe he’s asking. He is not onboard with inquiring after employee’s love lives. He’s a bit put out that Harry never mentioned having a girlfriend. And really, he’s got a witness in his office, all alone, without even a friendly cup of tea to mind him.

“I used to work with her,” Harry says. His eyes are filling with tears again and he bits down on his lip and creases his forehead with the effort to keep them at bay. “Years ago, at a bakery. She’s—she was really sick, you know? And now—she’s, it’s, I mean. _Louis_.”

“It’s okay, come here,” Louis pulls him in for a hug and it’s a little awkward. Because. Well, because Louis cannot think of the last time he’s hugged someone for the sake of comfort or friendship. Most of his hugs are, well, _lecherous_ in their very nature; a bit of a rub, a slight grind, a smidge of a tug. You know. “I’m sure she’ll bounce back in short order.”

Harry’s body gives a violent shudder and then he’s wailing. Like, _wailing_. That’s. Well, it’s just not _on_ , is what it is. At a loss of what else to do, Louis slides his hands up Harry’s back, to his shoulders, and tugs him closer, letting him sob (fucking _wailing_ ) into his neck.

“Jesus Christ, Louis!” Liam bellows and tugs on one of the arms wrapped around Harry. “Let him _go_! What are you doing, what are you _doing_? Let him go!”

“She _died_ ,” Harry cries out, clasping his hands together around Louis’ neck and refusing to let go, despite Liam’s forceful pulls. “She _died_ , Louis, and I—I didn’t—I didn’t make time to go see—see her—before. I was too busy. Oh god, I got this fucking _job_. And you. _You_. Oh god, she’s gone.”

That’s unexpected. Liam abruptly releases his bruising grip on his bicep and falls silent. Louis wishes Liam would keep trying to disentangle him from the sobbing mess of man collapsing into him. This is way out of Louis’ depth. He should have known better to wade into the murky waters of compassion. There is always a price to pay when you introduce kindness into the mix. And, this time, the price seems to be salty tears and snot on his new Luis Vuitton blazer and the lovely tie his sisters had given him for his last birthday.

The only way through, Louis decides, is to rely on the acting skills that come inherent to those with more charm and wit than the average person. He’s pretty sure he could have made a name for himself in Hollywood, such were his abilities. Generally, he used those skills to pull (and pull and _pull_ ), but he reckons he can tweak his style here and there to make do in this situation.

“Harry,” Louis says into Harry’s temple, rubbing soothing circles over his back. “Come on, shh, let’s get you home. You don’t need to be here today. Not like this.”

“I can’t,” Harry shakes his head vehemently, gripping a little tighter at Louis’ neck. If he doesn’t watch out, he may just strangle Louis and leave him for dead in the hallway.

“I’ll call for a car,” Louis says.

“ _No_ ,” Harry gasps. Tighter still. This is becoming a complex breathing issue for Louis. “Please don’t send me home.”

“Sweetheart,” Louis tries again. “You should be at home, with friends and family.”

Harry coughs out a little sob.

“I think his family and friends are in the north,” Liam offers quietly.

Harry nods furiously.

“Okay,” Louis tries valiantly to push Harry away, but the little barnacle is holding fast. “Okay, we’ll get you home, like, wait, where is that?”

“Holmes Chapel,” Harry mumbles.

“Okay, hold on, sweetheart,” Louis grips Harry’s writs and pries them apart. Harry’s eyes are swollen and his face is a mixture of pale and bright red. He cannot believe he’s taken this farce this far. But those eyes, that face, that _wail_. Well, he cannot be blamed for actually having human emotion, can he?  Shut up. “You have to let me go for just a minute.”

Harry reattaches himself to Louis’ back, tucking his arms up between them and hiding his face as best he can between Louis’ shoulder blades. Liam’s eyebrows have crept dangerously high and his eyes are as round as saucers.

“Liam,” Louis snaps his fingers close to his paralegal’s face, drawing his attention. “Go find Ed and get him to handle Mr. Cambridge’s interview. My notes are open on my computer and he knows the case well enough. Obviously, make my apologies to Mr. Cambridge—and take the man some damn tea.”

“Okay,” Liam agrees, but then shakes his head. “Where are you going?”

“I suppose,” Louis huffs a sigh that weighs a ton. “I’m taking Harry to Holmes Chapel for Barbara’s funeral.”

Liam stares in silence. Louis isn’t sure if he’s ever seen Liam dumbfounded before, but hey, Liam has never seen _him_ care a whit for a secretary before. But it’s not like he _cares_ cares. So, okay, Louis actually and genuinely likes the person Harry seems to be—well, as much as he can ascertain in the three-ish weeks Harry has been in his employ. It’s just that there was the tic-tac-toe non-game and the fresh flowers he’d put on Louis’ desk last Friday (neither of them mentioned it, but Louis _knew_ Harry had done it) and there was the tiny Spider-Man sticker on Harry’s monitor’s on/off button and the ring he wears on his index finger and the ankle-high boots that are technically too scuffed to be allowed at work and the hair.

Sweet Jesus, has Louis mentioned his hair? He thinks it’s spelled into perpetual sex-hair by some real life fairy or witch. He hasn’t decided if Harry _tries_ to make it curly or if he _tries_ to make it straight. It’s long, touching the collar of his shirts and it’s a blend of curly and straight. Wavy? It’s not really wavy though, is it? It’s fucking _curly_ , but in a _straight_ way, like Harry has spent hours and hours and hours running his fingers through it, tugging it straight. It’s a little bit glorious.

And for the record, now he knows what Harry’s hair smells like, thanks to the late Barbara. He can’t identify what it is, exactly—maybe patchouli? It would figure, what with Harry being a damn dirty hippy—although he’s not dirty in the least, is he? Louis could get him dirty given ninety seconds and flat surface. You know what, fuck the flat surface. Hell, _and_ the ninety seconds. He reckons he could get it done in thirteen seconds and with a wall, if he had to. Which, okay, maybe this isn’t the best time to give way to these thoughts.

“You’ll take me?” Harry asks, his voice is raspy and his breath is hot against the back of Louis’ neck. God help him, he’s going to die.

“There are thirty-eight reasons why you should not do this,” Liam says. “Actually, more than that. But I can only think of thirty-eight right now.”

“Put it in a memo, okay,” Louis shuffles to disengage from Harry. “Come on, sweetheart, let’s get your stuff.”

“Thanks, Louis,” Harry croaks and offers a tremulous smile. “Best boss ever.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay! Sometimes, the world of law is very busy!

The drive to Holmes Chapel from London took just over six hours, what with stops at both men’s flats to scoop up appropriate funeral attire and other essentials, and late afternoon traffic. They’re fifteen minutes out and Louis’ GPS cheerfully chirped directions while Harry dozed in the front passenger seat. He’d fallen asleep two hours in, with his cheeks still damp from the tears he could not stop as he told Louis all about his friend, Barbara. It surprised Louis to learn that she had been an old woman, not at all the kind of friend he’d expected Harry to have. The picture Harry had showed him from his phone showed the little woman’s cheek pressed firmly to Harry’s as they hugged and grinned at the camera. He heard the love and respect in Harry’s cracking voice as he told Louis how she used to pat his bum at least twice during every shift at the bakery. He heard the agony as Harry described the cancer that had taken her so fast; before Harry could arrange for a visit.

And ok, maybe Louis can’t understand grief—he’d never lost anyone he cared about—but he had still reached out and clasped Harry’s hand as he cried into the scarf looped around his neck. He’d squeezed Harry’s fingers as he hiccupped through his sobs. And when Harry’s forehead had slumped against his window and his cries whispered away into the deep breaths of sleep, his fingers going slack around Louis’, Louis kept his hand locked in place until the sweat on his palm made him uncomfortable enough to pull away.

“Harry,” Louis touches his palm to Harry’s thigh and shakes him gently as they reach the bottom of the exit onto Middlewich Road. “We’re almost there. Wake up.”

“What?” Harry’s thigh tensed as he stretched his legs straight into the floorboard, his joints creaking from the pull. “Did I fall asleep? I’m so sorry; how rude of me.”

“It’s all right,” Louis bites back the _sweetheart_ that seemed to be plaguing his brain every time he spoke to the curly-haired wonder at his side. Now that Harry’s tears had dried, it felt inappropriate. Not that Louis cares so much for appropriateness, but. There you have it. “I hated to wake you, but I thought you might want a minute to wake up before we arrive properly.”

“Thank you for driving me up,” Harry turns to him and says, his green eyes slightly pink around the lids, but still so very sweet. “I don’t have a car of my own and I’m not sure if I would’ve been able to navigate the train system on my own today.”

“It’s my pleasure,” Louis says automatically and then cringes. “Not my _pleasure_ , obviously. I am sorry for your loss, obviously. I mean to say that I do not mind. Obviously. I mean, you’re welcome.”

“Obviously,” Harry teases, curling his lower lip beneath his upper teeth briefly. Louis feels his neck flush with incredulity over his runaway mouth, but before he can rebound, Harry is carrying on. “Turn left up here.”

A few more directions from his navigator found them pulling into the driveway of a lovely brick house with vibrant green grass and immaculately kept shrubbery. Before the car finishes clicking through its powering down sequence, the front door opens and a bevy of people spilled out. Beside him, Harry rips off his seatbelt and catapults himself out of the car, loping toward the pack of people descending with outstretched arms. It looks like a zombie flick come to life—arms out, faces painted with grimaces and tears. Or maybe the teary climax of a rom com. Give Louis a good political drama any day of the week over this tripe.

Harry resembles a teenager, back for his first break after a long stay at uni. He holds tight to the woman Louis guesses is his mother, his shoulders shaking with fresh tears. He’s enveloped from behind by a stocky man Louis supposes is his father. A lovely girl about Harry’s age dances from foot to foot at his side; Louis is not sure, but doesn’t take the girl to be Harry’s girlfriend. The various other people lurk nearby, content to wait for their turn at the golden boy.

A knock on Louis’ window jerks him out of his reverie, and really, he needs to get a grip, because he cannot even remember the last time he was in a damn _reverie_.

“Hullo,” the blond man who tapped on his glass says with a somber smile. Louis recognizes him at once as the boy in Harry’s desk photo. He pushes the door open, rather than rolling the window down, and offers his hand to the man. “I’m Niall. You must be The Boss Man.”

“I prefer Louis,” Louis corrects with a polite smile and a firm handshake and then, before he can stop his stupid mouth. “Or _Oh god, Louis, yes!_ in a pinch.”

Niall’s eyes rounded comically and he whooped out a laugh that was loud and braying in the hush of greetings occurring at the front of the car.

Louis decides not to apologize for saying such a tragically offensive thing to Harry’s friend/cousin/neighbor/boyfriend/fuckbuddy/lover/who-the-fuck-is-Niall? and continue on as if all was well.

“Although, technically, yes,” he says as smoothly as he thinks he says. “I am Harry’s boss. I am also sorry to hear of your loss. Ms. Barbara seems to have made quite an impact.”

“Yeah, man,” Niall frowns, all humor zapped from his face by the reminder of Barbara’s passing. “She was amazing. Taught Harry everything he knows in the kitchen and some poetry besides. She may have actually done Harry’s assignments a time or two, although she’d roll over in her grave if she heard me—oh god, did I just say that? I’m going to hell.”

“I seriously doubt that,” Louis says, easy as that. “I don’t believe Hell takes blonds. Heaven has dibs. Greedy, bastarding angels.”

“Oh my god,” Niall’s face bursts into a variety of pinks and reds. He fans himself and smiles broadly. “That’s so—I can’t believe you said that.”

“Yes, well,” Louis says, casting his voice a bit gruff and turning the corners of his mouth up in a way he knows for certain is fetching. Niall’s stuttered breath holds a vindication for his vanity. “I cannot be blamed for speaking my mind when presented with such a beautiful smile.”

“You’re everything Harry promised,” Niall laughs and turns to look at the cluster hug still happening nearby. “Haz, get over here. Your boss is a hazard.”

Harry peels himself away and launches himself at Niall. Their hug is more intense than the others Louis witnessed; their hands grip into each other’s backs, their fronts flush from chests to ankles, heads dipped into one another’s necks, hands tangled in each other’s hair. If Louis was a betting man (which he is), he’d bet all the toes on his left foot that the two boys were about to snog each other’s faces off. Which, thank god he didn’t actually make that bet, because the boys separate without much ado and face Louis with nearly twin smiles.

“Sorry, Louis,” Harry says and takes a step backward, gesturing with his arm toward the house. “I didn’t mean to abandon you. I just haven’t seen my family in months. Right this way, I’ll show you where you can freshen up. Niall, can you grab our bags?”

“What?” Louis startles and takes a step away from Harry, smacking his ass into his car door immediately, as he was already hovering mere inches away from the safety of his car. “No, no. I’ll stay in a hotel. If you can direct me, I’ll check in and you can let me know when you are ready to return to London. I don’t want to impose.”

“Nonsense,” the burly man who had hugged Harry so tightly says, shoving Niall out of the way. “You’ll be staying with us; bunk in with Harry. You were kind enough to bring our boy all this way, and that warrants the four-star treatment at Chez Twist. Niall, get the bags.”

Well, balls. Louis doesn’t _want_ to stay at Chez Twist, which must be the family name, even though Harry’s last name is Styles, which must be because the burly guy is Harry’s _step_ father, which okay, Louis hadn’t realized Harry was the product of divorce, which sorta figures because the divorce rates in the UK are _outrageous_ , which is why Louis will never get married, which is perfectly fine by him. It’ll save him a fortune.

“I’m sure Louis doesn’t want to sleep on my lumpy little bed,” Harry objects on Louis’ behalf. Bless.

“Oh-ho,” the stepfather who still has not been introduced to Louis says. Rude, that. “Didn’t Anne tell you? We upgraded your bed and turned the room into a proper guest room. It’s quite cozy now, even down to fancy pillows you daren’t actually lay your head on.”

“I’m a sucker for decorative throw pillows,” Louis says a propos of complete shite. He _hates_ decorative throw pillows. And he _loathes_ staying in guest rooms of strangers—like, that may be at the top of his list of things he cannot abide. Why stay with people you don’t know who will shadow your every move, all while chirping out instructions to ‘make yourself at home.’ Please. If Louis made himself ‘at home,’ his hosts would be simply shocked by him stripping down to nothing but socks just inside the foyer. And probably by glass pipe and accompanying tangerine-sized nug of weed vacuum-sealed in his travel bag—he wants to have that unwrapped and lit in ten minutes flat, thanks. He could bow out gracefully, still; insist that bunking with one’s secretary is not appropriate _in the least_ , but instead, he goes: “I would love to stay.”

Harry’s smile is blinding, is what it is. His eyes are pink and swollen, his face is splotched pink and white, there are the tell-tale signs of dehydration in the white film lining his lower lip, but his smile is fucking perfect. Louis is helpless but to smile back. It’s probably not as fantastic as Harry’s smile, but Louis figures that’s okay; he’s not working with the same set of perfect facial features as Harry. Really, it’s not even a fair fight, is it? He would pay good money to see someone try to go toe-to-toe with Harry in an epic, all-out cage-fight style Smile Off. In fact, he’d _bet_ good money on that brawl. _Let’s get rrrrrrreaddddyy to rrrrrrrrumble! In the green corner, hailing from picturesque Holmes Chapel—the panty dropper, the curled wonder, the ray of sunshine personified, Harrrrrrrrry “Hot Damn” Styyyyyyylesss!_

Louis shakes his head and hurries to catch up to Harry and Niall’s retreating forms. It’s going to take a miracle to keep him sane this weekend. If only he could remember how to pray.

 

 

“You didn’t have to agree to stay, sir,” Harry says as they stand in Chez Twist’s newly minted guest room, staring at the large bed taking up the majority of floor space. He cringes and shoves his hands into his pockets. “Sorry, sorry, that was weird. I called you _sir_ in my _bed_ room. God. I’m so sorry.”

Louis’s mouth twitches and he snorts out a surprised laugh.

“I’m just nervous,” Harry exhales and shakes his head, picking Louis’ bag off the floor and moving to put it on the end of the bed. The _one_ bed.

“Do I make you nervous?” Louis asks, leaning back against the closed door, watching as Harry unzips his bag and lifts the top.

“Erm, yes,” Harry says, working diligently on removing the clothes from the valise and placing them on the bed. “Quite.”

“Interesting,” Louis tilts his head in a rolling, slow kind of shock as Harry removes the pants he had rolled up and tucked at the bottom of his suitcase. He was pretty sure that Harry had no idea that he was unpacking _Louis’_ clothing instead of his own. “Why do I make you nervous?”

“You know,” Harry says, his shoulders shrugging haphazardly. He collects the socks and underwear in his arms and crosses to the short dresser beside the closet door. He places the collection into the top drawer and then opens the closet to remove empty hangers.

“There are plenty of things I _know_ ,” Louis agrees. His eyes track Harry’s hands as they deftly hang one of the collared polo shirts from his bag. “But I’m afraid I do _not_ know why I make you nervous? You seem fine at work. And at lunch. Have I been unkind to you?”

“Of course not,” Harry says before the question is fully out of Louis’ mouth. He picks up a pair of slim-fit trousers and hangs them beside the shirt. “You are lovely. To me, I mean. You’re lovely to me. And you’re intimidating.”

“I get that a lot,” Louis admits, still fascinated by Harry’s mindless unpacking. He cannot wait for Harry to realize what he’s done; that he’s touched his boss’s pants. Harry reaches for a sleek black toiletries case. Uh-oh. “Harry, wait—”

Before Louis can stop him, he’s unzipped the case and reached inside. Around the five-ounce bottle of Astroglide Louis always travels with. A strip of condoms pop out around Harry’s large hand and flutter all the way down, down, down to the little stretch of floor between Harry’s feet. Sweet Jesus and Diana and holy Crookshanks.

“Oh, my soul,” Harry whispers, looking at the bottle in his hands. He tilts his head to peer at the silver foil-covered condoms at his feet. “These aren’t… mine?”

Harry turns to face the bed and look down at the mostly unpacked suitcase on his bed. Louis can see the dawning horror on his expressive face. It starts with his eyebrows, which climb up his forehead in slow motion. His eyes follow, rounding in the most ridiculous, bug-eyed shape on the earth. His jaw falls open, showing the tip of his tongue pressed against the inside edge of his lower lip. Then his skin gets into the spirit of things and burst into the most instantaneous full-face blush Louis has _ever_ had the pleasure of seeing. Once all the pieces to the shocked puzzle fall into place on Harry’s face, he whips his head around—and bringing his loose hair flying with it—to gawp at Louis.

Really, it’s fantastic and Louis really regrets not having his phone at the ready to capture it on film. He would have giffed the fuck out of it and used it in every text he ever sent ever again to express shock.

“I unpacked your suitcase,” Harry says dumbly, still holding the Astroglide in one hand. When he’d turned around, he caught one of the condoms under the toe of his boot.

“You did.”

“You,” Harry gestures around the room at large with the hand gripping the lube. His eyes skit along the same path. He catches sight of the lube in his hand and jerks his hand back, like he’d been burned. His cheeks burned hotter when the lube follows his attempt to flee. “You didn’t stop me. You _watched_ me touch—oh god—your _pants_. You didn’t stop me!”

“Well, no,” Louis chuckles and scratches the bridge of his nose. “You were in the zone. Seemed a shame to stop you. Also, I’ll _never_ say no to you touching my pants, sweetheart.”

The color of Harry’s face has never existed in nature before that moment. A color wheel would be helpful in this situation, because Louis wants to paint the backsplash in his kitchen the exact color boiling the side of Harry’s neck. It would lovely against the buttercream of his countertop.

“Liam told me you’re straight,” Harry accuses, pointing the lube at him like the hammer of Thor. “He said you are a, a… lothario. That they hired me because I’m a man and I’d be safe.”

“Remind me to fire Liam when we get back,” Louis says, his eyes crinkling in the corners. He likes Liam, he does, but they are very different. And Liam needs to keep his nose out of Louis’ business. Well, not his _business_ business, but his sexy business, okay?

“No, no, no,” Harry rushes forward, shifting the lube in his hand so he grips it between his index finger and thumb so he can hold both hands up in placation. “No firing Liam. God, Louis, such a drama queen. You _know_ you have a reputation. You _know_ why they hired me to work for you. So why the hysterics?”

“Hysterics?” Louis’ eyes snap wide and startled. “Excuse me? Also, did you call me a drama queen?”

“ _Hysterics_ ,” Harry repeats, his hands still raised, but tilting his head forward as if he is talking to a toddler. “Straight man hysterics.”

“Do you have a problem with straight men?”

“Of course not,” Harry laughs. “ _I’m_ straight.”

“Bullshit,” Louis exclaims with a laugh.

“No, really,” Harry laughs, too. “I mean, pretty straight. _Mostly_ straight.”

Louis considers this. He’s mostly straight, too, but sex is sex is sex, as Confucius once said. Maybe it was Socrates. Anyway. He’s never actually _dated_ a man, although, come to think of it, he’s never dated a _woman_ either. He’s more of a one-and-done kind of lad. He likes his freedom; he likes the chase; he likes the victory. He does not like to be encumbered; he does not like the morning after; he does not like to date. So yeah, he understands ‘mostly straight.’

“But,” Louis says, slowly, as his thoughts form and tumble out of his mouth. This is unusual, this slow flow of thoughts and the alarming lack of filter. He is known to have a quicksilver tongue, never letting up and always ready with the next remark, ready to decimate his opponent. Not that Harry is his opponent. Although he might not say no to a little old school Greek-style wrestling. “But you flirt with me.”

“ _You_ flirt with _me_ ,” Harry says, fumbling the lube to point at his boss. “You flirt with me _a lot_.”

“I’ll stop,” Louis holds his own hands up. “If you want me to. Tell me to stop and I’ll stop.”

Harry’s face has finally settled back into his normal color, save for a healthy flush at the apex of his cheeks, just under his shiny eyes. He tilts his head to the side and studies Louis, eyes scanning his face, his shoulders, his chest, his belly, (skipping his groin), his thighs, his feet, and back again. “No.”

A knock at the door prevents Louis from answering or even properly registering the low rasp of Harry’s _no_.

Harry’s look of horror is back. He looks down at the lube in his hands and then at Louis. He garbles out some sort of sound that could have been a warning or a Xena-esque war cry, and then he chucks the lube at Louis at full force.

The lube smacks Louis under his left eye and rebounds, where it falls the floor and skids under the bed. Louis slaps his hand to his eye, gasping in pain, just as the door behind him pushes open. He is unceremoniously shoved forward, stumbles into Harry, and ends up on his knees in front of him.

“Oh!” Anne’s voice rings out high and surprised.

Louis is kneeling. On the strip of condoms. His _knee_ is literally cushioned by a ten-strip. The condoms squish under his weight and roll about in their foil. Because life is cruel, his stupid knee is not covering _all_ of the condoms, leaving three to bravely wave at Anne from their place of capture.

And, oh hey, check it out, half of the lube bottle is sticking out from beneath the bed. The words “personal lubricant” shining like the North Star.

Louis Tomlinson isn’t one to blush, okay? It’s on account of his lack of shame. As in, he has none. Never had any use for that sort of drivel. Especially not when it comes to sex. He’s awesome at sex and he is not opposed to folks knowing that he knows that he’s awesome at sex. Or even that he has sex more regularly than perhaps most folks in England. For god and country and all that. But right here, in this particular moment, Louis can feel the rushing of blood to his face and neck. Adrenaline pumps his heart so hard that he can feel it shaking his guts. He’s _embarrassed_.

Really, all in all, Louis thinks it could have been worse. He’s heard many horror stories of straight men tripping and landing on a dick. Here he is, tripping—or no, _no_ , he hadn’t tripped; he’d been _assaulted_ —and falling into Prime Blowing Position. No dicks are out, so yeah, it could have been worse.

“I didn’t know,” Anne is stuttering as she backs out of the door. “Take your time—no, I don’t mean—just, finish up—oh. No, that’s worse, isn’t it? The, erm. Well. Never mind, then.”

Harry’s hands are on Louis; one on his shoulder and one on his chest. Both are gripping him and, if Louis is pressed, he thinks it looks like Harry is pulling him closer, although he’s 120% sure that Harry had ended up in that position in an effort to keep Louis’ face from careening directly into his crotchal region. Like, faceplanting onto his dick. Yeah, it could have been _so much_ worse.

“So,” Louis clears his throat and orders his blood to return to other areas of his body. Nothing to see here, move along, move along. “That was weird.”

“I am so sorry,” Harry releases Louis’ chest and touches two fingers to Louis’ cheek where the lube hit him. Louis flinches and raises his eyebrows at Harry in question. “You’re going to have a black eye. From lube. From lube hitting you in the face.”

Harry honest-to-god giggles, covering his mouth with both of his hands. Louis can’t quite think of what to say about that. He thinks he might have a concussion. From Astroglide.

“Oh my god,” Harry throws his head back and guffaws. “I’m so sorry. I’m _so_ sorry!”

“You do not sound sorry,” Louis says, pouting his lips and gazing up at Harry, who swallows down the rest of his laughter, and then swallows once more, making his throat click. Louis lowers his eyelashes and then looks up through them in a heavily practiced move. He only has one move, when it comes to escaping embarrassment. He could fuck the memory out of the minds of those who witnessed it. That seems very reasonable in this situation, yeah? “Why don’t you make it up to me?”

He shuffles a closer to Harry, dragging the condoms along for the ride. His mouth is even with Harry’s waistband and he lets one side of his mouth pull up until a devastating smirk settles in. He _knows_ this smirk is a sure thing, especially when used in conjunction with the eyelashes thing. If he could bottle it, he might could make a play for World Peace.

“Wh-what?” Harry breathes. His hips hitch forward without his permission, which makes shock flash over his face again. He shuffles backward, but doesn’t seem to make it very far. Louis reaches up to lay hands on the button of his trousers. “Wait, wait, what’s happening?”

Another knock on the door and Harry streaks away, collapsing against the closet door. This time, it’s a new voice.

“What did you do to mom, Harry?” Louis guesses it’s Harry’s older sister, who he hasn’t actually met. He figures he should get off his knees.

“Nothing!” Harry says and it’s high-pitched and hilarious, so Louis laughs. Harry bounds over to slap a hand over Louis’ mouth to prevent him from saying anything untoward and damning. No fun. “We’re unpacking. We’ll be right down!”

“Sure,” the voice laughs. “Mom walked in on ‘unpacking’ and that led her to drinking sherry straight from the bottle? Whatever. Hurry up. Mom needs help with the canapes for the wake.”

“Be right there,” Harry says, snatching away the hand he had over Louis’s mouth. But only after Louis had licked a sideways path between his middle and ring fingers. His face was blossoming into a lovely shade of mauve. “ _Quit it_ ,” Harry hissed.

“You know,” Louis leans close enough to murmur into Harry’s neck, lips close enough to exhale against his skin. “I think we should explore this ‘mostly straight’ claim of yours.”

Harry pushes him away and shakes his head. “You are so inappropriate,” he says. “This is a _sad_ occasion. You can _not_ try to seduce me here. I’m in _mourning._ ”

“Oh-ho,” Louis says softly, teasing with Harry’s stepfather’s words. “I can’t try to seduce you _here_? But I can try to seduce you _elsewhere_?”

Harry’s breath hitches and he bites the corner of his lower lip. Looking Louis dead in the eye without blinking or flinching away, he nods twice.


	4. Chapter 4

The funeral was a sad affair, as funerals tend to be. Ever since the incident in the bedroom on his first night in residence, Louis has behaved like an absolute gentleman, muting all innuendo and flirtation. It is a challenge, since it is instinct at this point.

“Are you mad at me?” Harry asks in a hurried whisper as they plate finger sandwiches in the Twist kitchen after the burial.

“Of course not, sweetheart,” Louis responds softly, giving in to the temptation to use what is quickly becoming his favorite endearment for his secretary; how very 1950s trite. He clamps down on a vision of Harry with his curls tucked into a bun, darling little cat-eye glasses perched on his nose. “Why would you think that?”

“You aren’t flirting with me,” Harry says—complains, more like. He looks at Louis out of his peripheral vision, his hands never stopping what they were doing. “Like, you haven’t touched me in over twenty-four hours. What’s wrong?”

“You told me not to seduce you here,” Louis reminds him, spreading lettuce on a serving tray so that Harry can arrange more sandwiches. A lettuce doily, if you will. “So this is me, not seducing you.”

“Firstly,” Harry says, his smile small, but deep enough to pop that unfairly attractive dimple on the left. “I said you can _try_ to seduce me. I plan to be a challenge. Secondly,” he says over Louis’ scoff. “I didn’t say you couldn’t flirt with me. It’s, I don’t know, _weird_ when you don’t flirt. Like, how can I be sure you’re not suffering from a lube concussion? What if you have a traumatic brain injury? Should we go to hospital to get you scanned?”

Louis throws his head back and laughs loudly for a second, until he remembers he’s at a post-funeral reception. He stuffs his knuckles into his mouth and bites down to silence his laughter. “Jesus, Harry,” he says, casting a furtive look over his shoulder and taking a sideways step toward him. “Are you trying to get me into trouble?”

He feels Harry shift the weight in his legs to the left, the results of which leave him pressed firmly to Louis’ right side, from shoulder to hip. He steadily builds neat little sandwiches and stacks them on the tray Louis had prepared for him, not once glancing at Louis.

“Oh, so it’s like that, is it?” Louis murmurs, turning the belettuced tray clockwise so that Harry has a blank canvas for more sandwiches. “You’re a _cheat_.”

“I beg your pardon?” Harry lifts his head to give Louis a perfectly innocent set of blinks. The top of his hand brushes over Louis’ fingers as he places another sandwich.

Louis is like one of those bulls that are forced to fight for sport in Spain. Harry is like one of those bastarding bull fighters, waving his saucy little red cape and prancing to and fro in bedazzled breeches and knee socks. And okay, Louis may need a moment to play out the fantasy in his head… just, like, five seconds… Harry in a bolero jacket and a black hat. His little bum squeezing tight as he turns just as Louis’, uh, _horn_ comes near. _Olé_.  Oh yes. _Olé_ , indeed.

“ _Ohhhhlé_ ,” Louis drags out on a sigh.

“What?”

“Nothing,” Louis clears his throat and quirks a brow at Harry. “I’m just stunned that your lovely mother raised such a damn dirty cheat.”

“You never told me _I_ couldn’t seduce _you_ here,” Harry points out. Which is just about the silliest thing Louis has ever heard because _what_. He is a sure thing. Crook a little finger, Harry, go on, he _dares you_.

“That’s true,” Louis says thoughtfully instead. He can play this warped little game of chicken with Harry, no problem. Little known fact: Louis Tomlinson did not _invent_ The Game, but he did perfect it. Sorted It into a national league, even. Today’s match: the Doncaster Dickwhistlers vs. the Holmes Chapel Hotcocks. Game the fuck _on_. He wipes his hands with the tea towel laying on the counter and turns to face Harry, his arms crossing over his chest. “You certainly may _try_ to seduce me here. But just so you know, I plan to be a challenge, too. So. Let’s have it.”

Harry assembles another pimento sandwich before he looks at Louis in confusion: “Let’s have what?”

“Seduce me,” Louis orders with a firm nod. Harry splutters, but his boss’s lips curl into a smile that clearly resembles a cartoon shark smelling the cartoon blood of a very large and very injured cartoon seal. “C’mon, Hazza, you think I’m easy? Let’s see what you’ve got.”

“I _know_ you’re easy, Louzza,” Harry says pointedly, but he smiles over the ridiculous nickname as he teases. “The whole of London knows you’re easy. Your phone number is on the wall of _three_ stalls in the office. ‘For a good time, call’ and there it is.”

“Shouldn’t be much of a challenge then,” Louis says, but he briefly wonders if Harry is telling the truth about his number in the bathrooms at work. And then he remembers that he uses those bathrooms, too, and there is no graffiti anywhere to be found; Simon would have a coronary. “So come on. Seduce me.”

Harry looks amused for a moment, but then his smile transitions neatly into a smirk and his eyes droop into a lazy blink. His body seems to melt, like chocolate left on the dashboard of a car in the summer heat, all gooey and scrumptious. Louis definitely wants to run a finger through him. (What? Okay, look, it works in Louis’ head, so let it go.)

“I’ve never attempted to seduce a man,” Harry says, keeping his eyelashes low to his cheeks and pitching his voice even lower. He dusts the bread crumbs off his hands with a nearby dishtowel, taking his time to drag the soft cotton between his fingers.

Louis feels a twitch in his eye when Harry flexes his fingers wide, spreading them until the muscles and tendons pull tight. _Taut_ , Louis thinks, which is fairly ridiculous because he has never—not in his entire life—thought the word taut. He’d learned the word as a horny middle schooler, reading the _Letters to Penthouse_ forum online under cover of night. _Eloise moaned and pulled against the silk binding her wrists. Her lithe body was taut under the onslaught of Horatio’s teasingly tender caress. His turgid—_ You know, now that he thinks back on it, he learned quite a lot of words thanks to Penthouse. But that’s neither here nor there. He pulls his focus back to the real, live— _taut_ —man in front of him. Whoa, hey, when did Harry get in front of him? And when, precisely, did Louis wind up with his bum squished into the counter?

“I’ve always been curious,” Harry is saying when Louis turns his ears back on. How low can Harry’s voice go? Louis feels sure he’s about to find out. “If a man finds the same things appealing. Like, if I loom over you and make you feel small…”

Louis lets the fact that Harry just said the word _loom_ go in favor of swallowing the amazing amount of moisture in his mouth. And promptly wishes he hadn’t as his mouth goes as dry as Tutankhamun’s tomb.

“If I brush your hair out of your eyes,” Harry continues, using gentle fingers to wisp through the fringe over Louis’ forehead. The tips tickle against Louis’ skin and trace their way behind his ear. “Would it make your breath catch?”

Uh. Yes. Yes it would. It _does_.

“If I tell you you’re the most beautiful creature I have _ever_ seen,” Harry shuffles his feet forward, pressing further into Louis space and _looming_ even more. Louis feels like the Frodo to Harry’s Gandalf, size-wise (heh, _Sam_ wise— _focus_ , Tomlinson). And his voice has slowed down to a speed that can only be called a Molasses Crawl. “Would you let me steal a kiss?”

Louis sways forward a bit, but catches himself. His fingers curl under the edge of the counter and anchors his body into place. He gets a little cocky and tries out a smirk. It may have been a bit wobbly.

“If,” Harry presses in even closer, his hips overpowering Louis’, almost cradling them between the sharp bones of his pelvis. His head dips so that his curly hair brushes Louis’ ear and he says, directly into Louis’ pebbled skin. “If I tell you your ass drives me to impure thoughts, would you let me ride it?”

Sometimes, Louis is his own worst enemy. More than sometimes. Okay, look, it’s just that his pride is problematic. He’s got more of it than the average bear and, try as he might, he lets it lead him around by the giblets. Take, for instance, this moment. His skin is trying to crawl off him and cling to Harry. He can feel it pulling and stretching, like a weed straining for the sun. His fingernails are firmly— _firmly_ —buried in the pressboard countertops and he thinks he can feel a splinter digging into the pad of his ring finger. His knees are locked, stiff as a board, else he’d slide right down to the floor, flip onto all fours and invite Harry to jump in.

Which. Huh. He’s never let a man bugger him. He has no real interest in that element of things. He likes to be in control. No shocker there. But he can clearly see it in his mind’s eye; Harry behind him, saying those molasses words as he slams into him.

“Is that all you’ve got?” Louis asks, in a heroic show of effort. So what if his voice is thin? The words are what matter. “Poor showing, Harry.”

“Whatever you say, Boss Man,” Harry laughs, but it sounds more like velvet rocks rolling around in a silk pillow case being snuggled by a pygmy koala. (Do pygmy koalas exist? They should. How cute would that be?) Louis thinks he feels Harry draw in a deep breath with his nose—is he _sniffing_ him?—and then he’s gone, turned back to his sandwiches.

“Don’t feel badly,” Louis says after several clicking swallows and a swig from a nearby wine glass with lipstick on one side. Looks to be Ruby Woo from MAC’s retro matte line; the very same color Siobhan from Environmental had stained his best tuxedo shirt collar after an unsatisfactory tumble at the 2014 holiday party. “Not all of us can be gifted at the art of seduction. You can try again later. I’ll coach you; it’ll be fun.”

 

 

This is the third night at Chez Twist. And honestly, when had Louis started thinking of this place as Chez Twist? He blames Robin. And, I mean of course, Harry. He’s enjoyed the brief respite from—oh shit, that brief in the Gramling matter is due Monday. He scrambles on the nightstand for his phone to fire off a panicked text to Liam.

**Louis:** _Gramling brief due Monday. Status?_

The little bubbling elipses appear at the bottom of his text window. He is impressed, momentarily, by Liam’s prompt attention. But then feels a bit sad for the man. He makes an entry on his mental task list: Get Liam a proper seeing-to immediately.

 **Liam Payne-in-my-arse:**   _Already out. Ed reviewed and signed._

**Louis:** _It’s 10:30 on a Friday night, man. Please tell me you’re doing something fun and not hanging around waiting for texts from little ol’ me._

**Liam Payne-in-my-arse:** _As if._

Louis snorts at that. Liam may treat him like he’s a recalcitrant child who accidentally found himself in charge, but Louis’ on to him: he _likes_ Louis. Deep down, probably. And more than that, he likes to please Louis with his good work and unflappable work ethic. So yeah, it’s possible that Liam’s sitting at home, waiting on a text from Louis.

**Louis:** _We’re headed back to London on Sunday morning. We’ll be in the office at usual time._

**Liam Payne-in-my-arse:** _We? Please tell me you didn’t screw him. I like him._

**Louis:**   _Ooh do tell. Do you ‘like’ him or do you LIKE him like him?_

**Liam Payne-in-my-arse:** _Piss off._

Louis appreciates the fact that Liam has come a long way with texting. When he’d first started at the firm, his texts were mostly unreadable, full of misspellings and text speak. And now, here he is, a fully-functioning, texting adult, telling his boss to piss off. Louis is so proud; he does good work for the community.

**Louis:** _I haven’t screwed him, Li-Li. But he did try to seduce me in his kitchen. Shocking._

**Liam Payne-in-my-arse:** _Tried? I don’t think that word means what you think it does._

Louis throws his head back and laughs. Sometimes, when Liam tries the least, is when he is actually at his funniest.

 **Louis:**   _Believe it or not, I’m playing hard to get._

**Liam Payne-in-my-arse:** _I think someone has stolen your phone. I’m calling the po—_

 

“You’re playing hard to get?” Harry interrupts Louis’ reading. Louis startles mightily, fumbling his phone as his fingers try and try and try to find purchase. Sadly, his iPhone is a sneaky bastard and makes a daring leap for the floor at the last moment. Quicker than Louis really thinks is fair, Harry lunges across Louis’ body and snatches the phone, mere inches from assured destruction. You’d think Apple would have come up with a shatter-proof screen by now. Honestly.

“It’s rude to read other people’s texts,” Louis says instead of thanking Harry for saving his phone, Superman-saving-Lois-Lane style. Heh. _Louis_ Lane. “What if I’d been talking about you?”

“You were,” Harry points out with a quick up-down-up-down of his left eyebrow. “So. Playing hard to get, are you?”

Louis turns under Harry and – wait. Harry’s torso is draped over Louis, sorta, while he leans on his hand, still in his iPhone-saving position. The tattered tee shirt proclaiming that Secretaries Do It In Triplicate is the only actual thing touching Louis’ abdomen and he’s only aware of that because his eyes have zoned in on the link between them.

“Louzza,” Harry bends his elbow a smidge, bringing his hip into direct contact with Louis’. His hair slides over his shoulder with the movement, hiding the strip of collar bone heretofore available to Louis’ eyes. That’s not cool; Louis reaches up and pushes the hair over his shoulder again. There. “Are you ignoring me?”

As if he _could_ ignore Harry. No, what’s happening here is that Louis is a bit speechless. He had honestly forgotten Harry was in bed with him. They’d been hunkered down for hours in relative quiet, both reading and messing about on their phones. Their conversation had come to a natural denouement about twenty minutes prior, leaving Louis in a restful, content sort of silence. To be thrown directly into the deep end of Harry’s flirt game is a bit off-putting.

“Is this you playing hard to get?” Harry tries again. He uses the hand not imprisoning Louis’ hips to place Louis’ phone face down on the nightstand, lifting up slightly to lean further over him. “Because if so,” he says with that embers-over-silk voice of his. “I’m into it.”

Louis chuckles breathily and tries to shake his head.

“You’re ridiculously fit,” Harry offers, bending his elbow more, letting his ribs rest on Louis’ stomach. His hair trickles over his shoulder again, tickling against Louis—and Louis can’t feel it because of his shirt and he desperately wants to rip it off. “But you know that. I want to tell you what you might not know.”

“I know everything,” Louis says and promptly wishes he hadn’t. His voice is all weird and squeaky.

“Mmm,” Harry touches Louis’ forearm and trails his fingers down to the cuff of his overlarge jumper, where he crooks them slightly, under, to find the skin of Louis’ wrist. “I don’t think you do,” Harry presses the tip of his middle finger into the pulse point in Louis’ wrist, just hard enough for Louis to feel it. “For instance,” his finger runs up Louis’ skin. “You’re eyes are the exact blue of my favorite shirt from year eleven. I wore it so much that the kids made fun of me. I loved that shirt. It was so soft; pliable.”

Louis blinks. It was supposed to be a subtle flutter, but he’s man enough to admit that plan had not come to fruition.

“Your ankles,” Harry continues, glancing once over his shoulder as if he simply must take a gander at the ankles in question. “Jesus, it’s like you’re a daring woman in the 17th century, flashing me with bare skin when I cannot see anything else. You make ankles downright erotic.”

Technically, Louis thinks he already knows that, although no one has ever said the words out loud.

“And this patch of skin,” Harry draws his hand out of Louis’ sleeve and taps lightly at a precise location just behind and below his right ear. “This one right here? It looks like peaches and cream and I’m dying to know if it _tastes_ like peaches and cream.”

Louis feels sure his head will explode if he has to watch Harry’s mouth form the word ‘cream’ again. “You want,” he swallows and licks his lips—100% out of need for moisture, not to be sexy because his brain just cannot right now. “You want a taste?”

“A taste,” Harry agrees. “A lick. A _bite._ ”

Louis keeps his eyes locked on Harry’s as he tilts his head, stretching his neck until his skin pulls taut (ha, taut!). “Go on, then.”

He thinks Harry won’t actually do it. It’s a safe bet, actually. Harry is mostly straight and this is probably too much. Teasing is one thing; Harry is a professional at that. But actually laying hands and mouth on another man is too far just yet.

Harry leans forward and licks a broad stripe over the spot he’d tapped. Louis has never been so glad to be so wrong before in his life. He draws in a surprised breath and his hands fly up to grip Harry by his upper arms, searching for an anchor as he is cast into a tsunami of fried nerve endings and explosive desire. Harry makes a pleasantly affirmative noise as he plants his mouth over the same skin and sucks.

Sweet...holy...sodding...effing...Mary Tyler Moore...

Game over. He’s not playing hard to get anymore. He couldn’t care less about playing hard to get or winning The Game or that he’s mostly straight or that Harry’s mostly straight. He _wants_ and he can hear the italics of that in his own damn head. He _wants_ this man.

“Yeah,” Harry says, pulling away from Louis’ neck, leaving behind wetness that makes Louis’ skin pucker as Harry breathes over it. “Definitely peaches and cream.”

Louis moves his hands to Harry’s back and yanks him flat onto his chest. He angles his head, going for a kiss, but Harry stills him with a finger against his lips.

“Ah-ah-ah,” Harry says, shaking his head even though his green eyes burn with desire obvious even to Louis. “Not here. Mourning, remember?”

Louis grunts his disapproval, but lets his arms drop to his side on the bed. Never let it be said he doesn’t respect Barbara. He closes his eyes and works to even out his breath. He needs to survive the night. And the one after that.

“I’m going to sleep on the couch,” Louis finally says, but doesn’t make a move to actually leave the bed.

“No, you’re not,” Harry says, pinning him firmly with his bodyweight. He grins like the innocent devil he is.

“You’re a dick,” Louis says with conviction.

“And you’re pants at playing hard to get.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I desperately want to find an artist to draw Harry in his Secretaries Do It In Triplicate shirt.


	5. Chapter 5

Dictation and transcription make up a great portion of the day in a law office. Louis uses his little handheld recorder to rattle off letters, pleadings, memos, reminders, and instructions. Louis hates dictation; has always felt weird about his voice on tape, especially when trying to do up letters. He thinks better with his keyboard under him, so he truly prefers to type his own letters. But company policy says that’s a waste of attorney time and secretarial resources. Basically, Simon told him to get the fuck over it and learn how to dictate like a real lawyer. So he had. Even though he spends a lot of time saying “strike that last sentence; no, strike that whole paragraph; shit” every couple of pages.

The thing about dictation is this: _Harry_ is the one to transcribe it. He uploads his little voice files from his handheld recorder to his computer, directly into the subdirectory called HStyles. Once it’s there, he need only wait for Harry to put it in perfectly formatted order and deliver it to the tray on the edge of Louis’ obscenely large desk.

It’s a direct line into Harry’s mind. Louis can work with this, in fact, he is pretty damn proud of thinking of this.

“On the Mason file,” Louis says, holding the recorder close to his mouth—but not too close, because that causes his voice to garble into nonsense, or so says Liam. “This is a memo to the file. On Monday, the 15th of August, Louis Tomlinson spoke to Dr. Rankin, neurologist, about his expert opinion on Tomlinson’s efforts to woo one Harry Styles,” Louis’ smile is so wide that his mouth waters from the effort. “Dr. Rankin, while generous in his praise of the forthcoming coitus, does not believe, within a degree of medical certainty, that sexual congress should take place (quote) willy-nilly (end quote). Widely revered as an expert in the field of the Long Game, Dr. Rankin opines that dinner and a movie on Friday night would be exemplar of proper wooing. Dr. Rankin further opines that such movie would best be viewed on the couch of Tomlinson. Dinner, which Dr. Rankin believes to be the most romantic of meals, should, for the sake of impending coitus, be scheduled at half six.”

Liam pokes his head in, putting a stop to Louis’ fun. Seriously, if dictation was all like this, he’d do it all day.

“Did you sign the letter for the expert in Taylor?” Liam asks, glancing down at the letter sitting in the middle of his desk. “I’ve got to get it to the courier by four.”

“Yeah,” Louis slides the letter and the binder rubber banded to it to the edge for Liam to pick up. As Liam scurried back out, Louis calls out: “Tell Harry I’ve left him some dictation to do before he goes for the day.”

“I can do it,” Liam offers immediately. “I’m at a good stopping point.”

“Now, now, Liam,” Louis says with a smirking admonishment. “That’s my _secretary’s_ job. Let him do it. He needs to familiarize himself with our files, and what better way that through dull memos to the file?”

“Yeah, you’re right,” Liam looks at him with those calculating shit-brown eyes of his (Louis kids; his eyes are lovely; the perfect shade of cockroach). He’s been watching Louis closely ever since his return from Holmes Chapel, like he’s waiting for some sort of explosion. He comes back into the office, shutting the door firmly behind himself. “Hey, I want to apologize.”

“Liam Payne is apologizing?” Louis leans forward on his elbows, steepling his fingers. “Did you forget to file the expert designation in Smythe? Because that’s unforgiveable.”

“God, of course not,” Liam huffs out an annoyed laugh. “If I did that, I’d pack my desk up and disappear.”

“So, about that apology?”

“Right, yes,” Liam ducks his head down, sighs, and then looks back at his boss. “I want to apologize for thinking the worse of you. With Harry, I mean. It was quite nice of you to take him to the funeral and stay to make sure he got back to London safely. I cannot believe that Holmes Chapel held much appeal to you and you were likely crawling the walls of the hotel in boredom. I assumed you were only there to _seduce_ ,” Liam’s nose crinkles at the word. “Harry. But he’s still here and there’ve been no theatrics, so I assume you were an actual _gentleman_ ,” again with the nose crinkle.

Louis tilts his head and his mouth down in a gracious bow, his thanks.

“I was worried, you know,” Liam keeps on. Louis knows that once he really gets revved up, he is actually capable of saying a great many words all at once, instead of just barking orders and commands at Louis. And wow, Louis really needs to convince his employees that _he_ is in charge around here. “Harry is so pretty, even I can see that. And he’s lovely, really, he is. I can see the appeal.”

“Obviously,” Louis chuckles and reaches out to connect his voice recorder to his computer with the insanely short cable that came in the same box as the recorder. “Shall I make arrangements for the two of you to attend some swanky legal support staff symposium in Bath so you can seal the deal?”

“God, _no_ ,” Liam takes a step away, his eyes wide and vaguely disturbed. “I am totally straight. You know that, right? I mean, Sophia and I—”

“Steady on, old man,” Louis shoots him an amused look and then focus back on his computer, clicking away to upload the audio file he’d just completed to HStyles. He won’t call attention to Liam’s gay panic, well, not directly. “I know you are strictly _not_ -dickly. Although really, dick is like asparagus—how do you know you don’t like it if you’ve never even put it in your mouth?”

“Oh my god,” Liam chokes and then coughs and then splutters. Louis never took his paralegal as the religious type, but he sure does call out to his god a lot during office hours. “ _Jesus_. Louis, _god_. You absolutely cannot say things like that in the office. You do know that, right? I mean, do I need to schedule you in to a sexual harassment seminar? I mean, _again_? Maybe a webinar so you don’t end up balls deep in the presenter this time?”

“Liam,” Louis says severely, bunching his eyebrows together and pulling a frown of epic proportions. “You can _not_ say ‘balls deep’ in the office. You know that, right?”

Liam stands frozen, his mouth open on his next admonishment and his index finger hovering mid-air, ready to jab out his point. But then his mouth closes and he shakes his head. “I give up,” he says, jabbing that finger of his afterall. “I’ve done all I can to keep you from being sued. Or from being put out on your arse by your partners. I’m officially done. Do what you will.”

“Aww, don’t be like that,” Louis pouts and gets to his feet to hurry around his desk. He knows this is a problem between the two of them. Louis likes to test limits, always pushing and prodding at the line until it’s nice and trampled. His paralegal, on the other hand, loves limits; he coddles and cares for the line like a newborn kitten. Louis knows this and should really, really stop forgetting that his devil-may-care attitude causes Liam real and actual stress. “I’ll stop with the dick jokes, okay? Sometimes I forget you don’t share my sense of humor. It’s so much fun to rile you up and watch you go apoplectic.”

“It’s not fun for me,” Liam says, an edge still touching his voice. He rearranges the rubberbanded stack in his arms and opens the door.

“Hey,” Louis lunges and touches Liam on the shoulder—but he doesn’t try to restrain him. “Wait, wait. Come on.”

“ _What_?” Liam snaps and it’s real enough that Louis drops his hand and steps away. “Some of us have actual work to do.”

“Nothing,” Louis says quickly and waves him away. He had intended to offer his gratitude—for putting up with his assorted bullshit on a day-to-day basis. He makes a mental note to deliver his thanks at a more appropriate time, maybe once Liam has settled into his work again and has forgotten how irritating he finds his boss. That might take a day or two, but it always settles.

He watches as Liam stops by Harry’s desk to mention the dictation. Louis had almost forgotten, and he is tempted to call out to Harry, to stop him from opening the file. He isn’t sure if he’s in the mood to continue with these sorts of antics today, what with the sting of Liam’s words still fresh in his mind. He doesn’t want to tip Liam over the edge. Harry is already pulling up a blank Word doc and putting his headset on. With a gentle press of his right booted foot, it’s too late for Louis to do anything more than lurk in the doorway and wait.

Harry’s fingers fly over the keys, transcribing Louis’ words. He seems to have the speed down a bit—an old trick secretaries use to prevent unnecessary stops to let their fingers catch up to the dictated words—because it takes a little longer than Louis had anticipated for his fingers to falter.

And wow, what fingers they are. Louis is frankly astonished that he hasn’t mentioned them before now. Long and graceful, they are. His wrists arch perfectly away from the keyboard. His nails are bluntly rounded and buffed to a pearly pink shine. On anyone else, it might look efete, but on Harry, it only looks clean and orderly. His knuckles are proportionate to his hands; not glaringly large, but noticeable once Louis’ eyes trips over them.

“Oh my god,” Harry’s voice rips through the quiet office space. Louis grins and watches him slap a palm to his mouth while he stares at the words he’s typed. His foot shifts to the rewind pedal on the left and then presses the middle play pedal, listening to Louis’ words again.

Louis takes in the hunch of his shoulders, the dip of his neck. His hands come up to cup his headset closer to his ears, as if he had simply misheard his boss’s memo to the Mason file. His foot lifts again. Rewind. Play. When Harry’s shoulders start to tremble and a giggle escapes from his pursed lips, Louis pushes away from the doorway and approaches his desk.

“Well?” Louis asks, his hands in his trouser pockets and rocking back on his heels. He shoots a glance at Liam, who is on a call and not paying them a bit of mind. Small favors. “Did you get that memo done for me? Quite important, it is.”

“Yes,” Harry blurts, scrambling out of his chair. Unfortunately, the movement draws Liam’s attention; he narrows his eyes, but continues with his call. “I finished. And. Well, yes.”

“Yes?”

“Yes,” Harry’s swallow is visible from space thanks to the not-insignficant bobbing of his adam’s apple. “To all of it.”

Louis beams.

“I know it’s the end of the day, sir,” Harry continues. “But could I have a moment of your time?”

“Of course,” Louis says, ever the professional. “What’s up?”

“It’s a delicate matter,” Harry says, shooting a look at Liam that is both apologetic and self-deprecating. Liam hangs up the phone as Harry weasels in a faint blush and a cringe, as if he’s about to reveal that he’s been inflicted with leprosy and must tell his employer that he (—what the hell is Louis even on about? There is no leprosy. Nothing is going to fall off Harry. Let it go, Louis.). “Can we speak in private?”

 “Shall I buzz Ed and Simon?” Liam asks, looking worried.

“No,” Harry yelps, throwing his hands up and shaking his head vigorously at Liam. Louis almost laughs at the little at Harry’s panicking eyes. The little shit clearly had not taken Liam’s fatherly disposition into enough consideration. “No, please don’t.”

“It’s okay, Li,” Louis looks worried and even shifts a bit on his feet. He’s a Slytherin, proud and true; he feels no shame in this farce. Harry leads the way with coltish steps. Louis gives Liam a confused shrug and a pained face. He tries not to think about the fact that pre-Harry Louis would have instantly ordered Liam to join him in the room or call for Ed – or security. Go, go, Slytherin. “I’ll let you know if we’ll need them.”

Liam keeps his eyebrows high as Louis gives one last woe-is-me-I-am-soooo-put-upon look before his office door schnicks shut.

“You dictated that—that—” Harry’s hand makes frantic circles in the air. “That _memo_. With, like, legalese and _coitus_.”

“Did I?” Louis blinks and brushes at the cuffs of his shirt.

“You win,” Harry says. The baritone in his voice draws Louis’ full attention; the actual words penetrate a moment later. “You _win_.” Harry says again and then he’s moving. He plants his hands on Louis’ shoulders and walks him backwards until they run into the door with a muffled thump. “And I want to kiss you. Right now.”

“Oh,” Louis manages. He spares a moment’s celebration; he _knew_ Harry had wanted to get him behind closed doors to do unspeakable things to his person. Harry comes closer, but doesn’t close the distance. Why is he stopping? Are they still playing The Game, because Louis is arsed if he knows. But it feels different; this feels _real_. “What’s stopping you then?”

“I’ve never kissed another man,” Harry admits, sounding irritated at his own inexperience. He traces a finger through the ruddy stubble on Louis’ face, his eyes tracking the way the coarse hairs move and part for him. The tip of his index finger bumps against Louis’ lower lip, but skips away quickly. Louis wants to smile at his skittish touches, but opts to stand perfectly still instead. Louis has a wealth of experience with first times. He could catalog them, if he really wanted to—all the virgins, all the blushing confessions, all the ‘I’ve nevers’. But he doesn’t really want to—unless it’s to record them all on an Etch-a-Sketch and then shake them all away. He needs _space_ —the room—in his memory. He needs enough space to remember every single, infinitesimal detail of this moment. This is the only first kiss they will ever share. This is the only first kiss that will ever matter—Louis knows it before it even happens. This kiss will destroy his future and he _needs space_.

“Come here,” Louis says when he thinks he has enough memory freed up to capture what is happening in high definition. And Harry does. He leans forward, keeping his body firmly a hands width away , so careful. He hesitates, hovers above Louis’ lips, breathing in and out deeply, slowly, like he’s pacing himself for a marathon.

Louis tilts his head and presses his lips to Harry’s. Harry gasps and jerks back a fraction of an inch, staring at Louis with wide eyes that cross a little from their proximity to Louis’ own.

“Again,” Harry asks and kisses Louis before the word fully forms. This time, there’s no gasp. There’s a tiny, nearly missed, one-syllable whimper, followed by a firmer press of lips. Louis changes the position of his head, ducking his nose out of the way so he can meld their mouths together.

And here’s the thing. There are no fireworks or chirping birds or other Disney theatrics. Louis kinda thought there would be, like in a Pepe Le Pew cartoon—wait, Pepe is Looney Toons, right? Irrelevant. There is only a ringing silence, so loud that there is a rush of low-key static, close to the sound of the sea rushing toward the shore at sunset. It starts in his toes, the silence—the sound—and climbs up, delivered by his bursting capillaries; they rush, in _such_ a hurry, to fill Louis’ veins and flood his nerves. It stings and tickles and crushes his chest to smithereens; his fingers spasm and cramp from its power. His knees knock together and stay there, holding him captive in a boyish stance. His hair follicles tingle (he can feel each and every one individually) and his eyelashes honest-to-god flutter.

And then Harry introduces his tongue to the situation.

Fuck the Beatles, sporks, Sun-Maid raisins, and the god damn phone book.

He’s about to work himself into a proper moan, but Harry rips away and covers his mouth with his big hand. He hears a quiet “shhh” and follows the order like he hasn’t been the boss of everyone in the building for over five years. He pants into Harry’s palm, his breath rebounding muggy and hot onto his own face. He strains his ears and can just make out a hint of noise on the other side of the door. Like maybe Liam has pressed his ear to the door.

“It’s generally not a big deal,” Harry says suddenly, in a shockingly normal voice. His eyes are trained on Louis’ mouth and do not deviate. “It’s only numbers, really. And I don’t deal with those too often. I’m sorry I didn’t mention my dyslexia at the interview.”

Dyslexia? What? It takes three blinks and a nudge from Harry before Louis understands his little speech was for the benefit of the lurker on the other side of his office door. He wrenches Harry’s hand away from his mouth so he can say: “Thank you for your honesty, Harry. I do not think it will inhibit your ability to perform,” and he smirks and jerks an eyebrow up at Harry.

“No, sir,” Harry agrees, stepping forward until his chest bumps into Louis’. “And while I have you, can we talk about the holiday schedule?”

“Sure,” Louis says, reaching up to wind a fistful of hair around his fingers and tug Harry’s head back a smidge. “Now’s the perfect time to put in your request.” He leans in and drags his lower teeth up the column of Harry’s neck until he gets to his ear, where he whispers: “Is this a yes to dinner at my place on Friday?”

“Yes,” Harry hisses, dropping his head to the side to encourage Louis to continue his good work. Louis, apparently very obedient for the first time in his life, sets his teeth again. “Jesus… I mean, I’m very religious, sir.”

“That’s an admirable trait, Harry,” Louis raises his mouth long enough to say. “Do you pray often?”

The door behind them moves a tad, as if Liam is resting his full body weight against it.

“Not as often as I’d like,” Harry says, pressing his palms flat against the door, caging Louis in and swooping in to kiss him again. His tongue is a live wire, but Louis manfully keeps quiet. When Harry pulls away again, it’s to say: “But on Fridays, I like to get down on my knees and pray for hours.”

Louis’s vision swirls out of focus and he actually sways on his feet. He gets slapped around by the picture his imagination conjures of Harry on his knees. Nothing sticks; there are just too many options. He could go classic, with Harry kneeling in front of him to suck his cock. Or Harry on hands and knees as Louis fucks him from behind. Or Harry on his knees, pushing his arse onto Louis’ face. Or Harry on his knees with his face buried in Louis’ arse. Really, he needs to stop before he plants his own knees on the carpet in his office.

“Sir?” Harry prompts, brushing the tip of his nose against Louis’. “Do _you_ pray?”

“Yes,” Louis says immediately. He reaches out and slides his index finger over the subtle bulge in Harry’s trousers. Not quite fully hard—and whoa. Hello there, Big Dick. “Often. And loudly.”

That may have been a touch too far, because Liam raps on the door with three terse knocks and calls out: “Everything okay in there?”

“Yes,” both Harry and Louis snap at the same time. Curse Liam to perdition.

“Ed is here to see you about the Mason file,” Liam says, that fucking traitor. “Shall I send him in?”

Harry pulls away, pushing the heel of his hand desperately into his crotch, rearranging and settling himself. There’s a flush high up on his cheeks and a sheen to his forehead. Louis is pleased, overall, with the conversation. He grins at Harry and stops him as he reaches for the doorknob to beat a hasty exit.

“Friday night,” he says, using the bedroom voice that has witnessed more than a dozen panties hit the floor. “Bring your bible. We’re going to pray. All. Night. Long.”

He watches Harry shudder, a full body occasion that starts in his ankles and shoots out the top of his head. Louis thinks, just maybe, that Harry just had what he likes to call an existential orgasm. An orgasm of the mind, if you will. Harry looks like he could use a cigarette, so Louis pulls one out of his own pack, tucks it behind his ear and ushers him out.

“Ed!” He calls out with an easy smile and waves him in. In his periphery, he sees Harry stumble into his chair and sit, legs splayed as wide as his eyes. “Just going over holiday travel plans. Did you know our Harry here is a religious man? Takes it all very serious, he does.”

“Since when do you smoke?” Louis hears Liam ask behind him, which makes Louis laugh before he closes his door to turn his attention to Ed and the damn Mason file.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This week has been hectic. I'm leaving in about an hour to go to DragonCon in Atlanta (woo!) so I could not get everything into this chapter that I wanted. Forgive me, please. I will make it up to you next week; hand to Harry; on Louis I swear. I'll be back home on Tuesday, September 6th, so look for an update on or around September 8th. I'm taking my trusty notebook, so if I can get my thoughts on paper, it may be sooner. Thank you to you ALL for sticking with me on this one. I appreciate the comments so much; you have no idea. <3

Louis takes to leaving dictated notes for Harry every day. He drops the pretense after that first one, because it doesn’t seem necessary. Instead, he loads them up with one-sided compliments and innuendo, like:

_I fully approve of those trousers. Are they easy to take off? Perhaps you should wear them Friday._

Or

_Would you be opposed to moving your desk twelve inches to the right? I can’t see you from here and that is terribly unfair. You’re like a piece of art—to be ogled and admired at all times._

And once

_Our Secretary, which art in the office,_

_Harry be thy Name._

_Thy dick shall come._

_Perhaps in my mouth_

_Or while my dick is in your arse._

_Give me this, my daily blow._

_And forgive me for coming on your face,_

_As I forgive thee for coming on mine._

_And please lead me into temptation,_

_So as to deliver me from blue balls._

_For thine is the monster cock,_

_The open mouth, and the gloryhole._

_For Friday and part of Saturday._

_Amen._

That one had made him giggle. And Harry had laughed out loud and then lied to Liam about an inappropriate text from his _mom_ to cover. Oh, and then he’d moved his desk fourteen inches to the right, with a bit of an angle so that Harry’s profile was more three-quarters face than a half face. Such an overachieving show off.

 

So, it’s Friday afternoon and Louis has had enough of waiting for the day to be over (read: his date to start). With a mental _fuck it_ , he pushes his chair under his desk and marches out of his office to announce his departure. It’s only two o’clock, but he could use the time to tidy his flat and put dinner on. Well, okay, so he’s not cooking in the _traditional_ sense of the word. He’s more like _ordering_ , but he has to pick it up from Whole Foods and get it plated so it looks like he’s made an effort.

 

“All right, boys,” Louis claps his hands as he stops in the middle of the outer office. Both Liam and Harry look up dutifully, Harry with a pen in his hand, ready to make notes. Louis angles away from Liam for a tick—just long enough to send him a small smile. “It’s Friday!”

 

“It is,” Liam agrees and his eyes skitter to the calendar pinned to his wall. Louis knows he’s scanning it to check for deadlines, as if he’d ever wait until the day something was due to actually get it out. Shah, as if. “Do you have something for us?”

 

“I do,” Louis grins at his beleaguered paralegal. He moves forward to grasp Liam by the shoulder. “Are you in the middle of something? Have you saved your work?”

 

“I just finished the medical chronology in the Prewett case,” Liam says, tensing under Louis’ hand. He moves for his mouse. “I was just going to email it to you.”

 

“Go ahead, then,” Louis says, because yeah, that med chron is important and he really should analyze it over the weekend. He stands beside Liam as he clicks a few buttons and hits send. From across the room, Harry has leaned his chin into his palm, watching the pair of them with open interest. “Okay then, now that that’s done… anything else that absolutely must get done today?”

 

“Well,” Liam shifts some papers.

 

“I mean anything that absolutely _has to_ go out today?” Louis is quick to clarify. He sees Harry shake his head out of the corner of his eye.

 

“No,” Liam finally admits with a defeated sigh. “I guess not. Why? Are you in the mood for a wasteketball tournament?”

 

“Oooh,” Louis’ eyes light up. He _loves_ a good wasteketball tourney. They have a special waste basket (thanks, Ikea!) in the closet in Louis’ office, along with special, colored paper so they know who makes what shot. Louis may or may not have designed jerseys after the last tournament. There’s a box of them secreted away in his office.

 

“I’m in,” Harry says at once. “Assuming you mean trash can basketball. I’m brilliant at that game.”

 

“On it,” Liam says, suddenly not fussed at all about leaving work undone. He jumps to his feet and dives under his desk, where they hid their colored paper. “Harry, go get the box of jerseys out of Louis’ credenza.”

 

“How do you know about the jerseys?” Louis demands, sorta making an aborted attempt to stop Harry, but really, he just wants answers. “Some things are _private_ , Liam.”

 

“They’re not when you use the company card,” Liam says as he stacks three piles of paper on his desk, right over the files he’d been working on. He starts balling the red paper into tight little balls and lining them up in front of his monitor. “I had a hell of a time justifying that expense. I billed it as a CLE class to the firm. I figured you wouldn’t mind.”

 

Louis watches helplessly as Harry returns with three garish pink and green jerseys with a trash can on the front, balls of paper exploding out the top with tails of fire making streaks in their wake. Under the picture: “Tommo’s Tapirs”. They really are a thing of beauty.

 

“Tapirs?” Harry asks, as he shucks off his grandfatherly cardigan and slips a jersey over his head. “Why the tapirs? Aren’t they the pig-slash-anteater things with really big dicks?”

 

It’s official. This situation has gotten away from him at an alarming speed. He had just wanted to dismiss his staff early so he could go home and pretend to cook. Maybe jerk off so he’s cool as a damn cucumber when Harry arrives for their dinner/movie/praying date. But nope. His boys had railroaded him in the most ludicrous way possible.

 

“Yeah,” Liam says, way more cheery than he is on a regular day. Apparently, he’s a fan of wasteketball. “Tapirs are quite well-endowed. They’re Louis’ favorite animal, based on that fact alone, I think.”

 

“No, no,” Louis says amidst Liam and Harry’s very unprofessional giggles. “They are a majestic beast. Very underrated. Plus… their noses are so cute; it makes me want to slap them in the face.”

 

“Come on, boys,” Liam says once he’s got his jersey in place over his blue button down. He’s removed his paisley tie and draped it over his monitor. He picks up a stack of paper in each hand, passing the electric blue to Louis and the spring green to Harry. “Arm yourselves and let’s get this done. I’ve been dying for a rematch since Louis cheated his way to a W last year.”

 

“Louis cheats?” Harry asks, his over-the-top shock making Liam laugh. Despite his teasing, he tosses Louis a jersey to put on. “Why, I never would have imagined such a thing.”

 

“Oh, that’s it,” Louis crumples a piece of paper fiercely in his hand, holding it up in an open challenge. “You’re both going _down_. Loser has to bring in donuts on Monday. The _good_ kind, Liam, not the gross ones from the gas station.”

 

“Gentlemen,” Harry finishes balling his paper and then nods seriously to Louis and Liam in turn. “May the best man win.”

 

“Thanks, sweetheart,” Louis grins and winks. “I intend to.”

 

In the end, Louis owes Harry and Liam donuts on Monday. And an explanation to the cleaning crew for the state of the room. And the ceiling. He should probably go ahead and bring them donuts, too.

 

 **

 

Because of the impromptu wasteketball tournament, Louis doesn’t have time to pick up the savory dinner he’d planned. In fact, they don’t leave the office until well after six o’clock, what with the three of them having such a good time with their wads of paper. Louis had produced a bottle of peach schnapps from the recesses of his credenza about an hour into their game (really, Louis’ credenza is like a treasure chest; he has all manner of items in there, from needlepoint Christmas gifts from old secretaries [like, the old lady he had for a year before she threw up her hands and abandoned him] to, obviously, peach schnapps and poorly designed jerseys). That made things interesting. So interesting, in fact, that Liam hadn’t even balked once when Louis had tackled Harry to the ground in _clear_ violation of International Wasteketball Club Regulations. Instead, he’d taken the opportunity to score three points with a Vladimir’s Reach Around maneuver while his coworkers were on the floor, grinning into each other’s faces. As it turns out, Liam + peach schnapps = A Different Person.

 

“We can reschedule,” Harry offers as Louis drives him home after the tournament ended. “I know it’s getting late.”

 

“It’s not late,” Louis says, glancing at his passenger with a wry smile. Louis isn’t in the habit of offering rides to employees. This one is for purely selfish reasons; he wants to get Harry to praying as soon as possible. So, no, Louis was decidedly _not_ going to let the man take the Tube home to change and then to Louis’ house. No way. “How old _are you_ , Hazza? It’s not even seven on a Friday night.”  


“I was just being polite, Louzza,” Harry shoots back. Louis should call him out on the stupid nickname he uses in response to Louis’ own perfectly acceptable use of Hazza. Really? Louzza? Too close to loser for Louis’ liking. Although… he does enjoy the fact that Harry has given him a pet name, even if it’s a stupid one. “In case you need to take your medications and rub your corns. You know, because you’re, like, an old man.”  


“How. _Very_. Dare. You,” Louis says, punctuating each word with a significant pause in between.

 

Harry laughs with a glorious eruption of sound, his head thrown back against his seat. Louis can’t stop joining in, even though the joke was at his expense. Harry’s laughter is like that, you know? It seems to start somewhere low in his belly and barrels out of him like a bullet from a gun, surprising and loud. Louis has seen others get caught up in one of Harry’s laughing spells— _Liam_ , for the love of Kelly Clarkson—so he doesn’t feel too churlish about being affected the same way.

 

Only. It’s a bit different, he thinks. Unless Liam gets the same tightness in the groin region when Harry’s laughter washes over him. And if Liam _does_ get the tightness, well, Louis survived without Liam in his life before, he could damn well do it again. Gorgeous, anal Liam who likes everything just so, including his stupid bulging shoulder muscles. No, Louis isn’t up for competing against Liam; best to remove the competition early.

 

But he’s pretty sure Liam doesn’t experience the groin tightening pleasure that seems directly linked to Harry’s laugh. And also to Harry’s smile. His whole face, really. And all the sounds that come out the aforementioned face. Like, words. And moans. Yes, his groin quite likes those things as well.

 

He’s going to kick Liam’s ass. Just to be sure. He’ll have to, like, sneak up behind him and punch him in the ear or something. And then run really fast.

 

“What are you thinking about over there?” Harry asks, snapping Louis from the deep recesses of his own inner monologue. And Jesus Christ, Louis _really_ needs to get a handle on that. Soon. “Your face is having a field day, whatever it is. Smiles and smirks and scowls all over the place.”

 

“I am a very intelligent person,” Louis says modestly. Harry snorts. “I have a plethora of thoughts that require a plethora of expressions.  Say, what do you think of Liam?”

 

“ _Say_?!” Harry turns fully in his seat to show Louis’ his Very Amused face. He folds one long leg under his thighs, his knee knocking against Louis’ hand on the gearshift. “You are definitely an old man. Or very unsubtle. Are you seriously asking me if I think Liam is hot? Or—oh, I see what this is—you’re asking me if Liam is hotter than _you_.”

 

Hot pokes of color burst over Louis’ cheeks. He’s not calling it a blush. He’s calling it coloring of his face in the, uh, face of being rather busted whilst being a twelve-year-old twink with a crush. Jesus, Louis, quick, think of something witty to say: “Am not.”

 

Oh yes, yes, that was _exactly_ the thing to say to reaffirm your position as a grown-ass man. _Well done_.

 

“Liam is pretty hot,” Harry says, just as Louis pulls in front of Harry’s flat. He opens the door, climbs out, and shuts it without another word. He rushes into his building without sparing a glance back at Louis, which is a good thing, since Louis’ mouth is currently hanging open in shocked indignation. He has the right mind to drive off straightaway.

 

Instead, he throws the car in park, ignoring the tow away zone signs, and runs into the building behind his errant secretary. He knows Harry is on the fifth floor and he knows there is an Americanized HARRY ST street sign hammered under the peep hole (that confession came out at Holmes Chapel, when Louis had questioned the existence of four large holes on the front of his bedroom door). Armed with that information, Louis took the elevator up to the fifth floor and stalked down the hallway, swinging his head left and right as he looked for that blasted sign.

 

Ah. There it is. Of course he’s in the last flat on the hallway. Of course he is. And so Louis’ bangs into the apartment, slamming the door behind him. Fuck Liam and his shoulders. _Fuck_ dinner and a movie.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All smut. Like, from beginning to end.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for the delay in posting this. DragonCon was magnificent, but the day after I came home, I got walloped with Con Crud... which turned into bronchitis... which turned into pneumonia. It's been a trying couple of weeks and I'm sorely off my game. So. This chapter gave me so many fits that I've just decided to post it and hope for the best.
> 
> Be prepared for some wildly vacillating action based on heretofore unknown desires held by Louis. I've added some tags. IDEK what this is and I hope it works.

Louis advances on Harry the moment the door closes behind him. Harry appears at the end of the hallway, in unbuttoned skinny jeans and clutching a white tee shirt in his hands. His eyes are wide and he stammers out a question, but Louis disregards it entirely.

 

“Fuck Liam’s shoulders,” he says instead.

 

“Okay,” Harry says. His hands flutter up to use his tee shirt as a shield, hiding his bare chest from Louis’ hungry eyes. “Yeah, okay. Fuck Liam’s shoulders.”

 

“And fuck dinner and a movie,” Louis clarifies, unbuttoning his shirt.

 

“Oh,” Harry says, clutching the shirt harder and taking a step back. Conveniently, the step back took him further down the hallway, which was, presumably, closer to the damn bedroom. “I was getting dressed.”

 

“Don’t bother,” Louis says. He drops his dress shirt to the floor, leaving him in a slim-fit white undershirt with a v-neck. Louis knows full well how the material cups and slides over the lithe muscles of his arms and shoulders. “Drop the shirt and get over here.”

 

Harry doesn’t drop the shirt and he most definitely doesn’t get over there. 

 

“You’re torturing me, sweetheart,” Louis groans as he walks across the room and takes hold of Harry’s wrists. He uses his hold to shove Harry down the hall until he finds an open door on the left. Harry goes willingly enough, although he sputters out several unrelated syllables that couldn’t be a sentence even if the syllables got together and unionized: _What do we want? A comprehensive sentence! When do we want it? Maybe later!_

Harry’s room is relatively small, as one would expect of a secretary’s flat. It takes less than a dozen steps to steer Harry to the bed and one small push to send Harry sprawling, tee-shirt still gripped tight in his fingers. His hair fans out around his head in a likeness of the Virgin Mary with her star-spangled halo.

 

“Fuck, you’re _hot_ ,” Louis says, crawling onto the bed and straddling Harry’s hips. His bum nestles directly on the unzipped V of Harry’s skinny jeans. And there it is again; that idea of Harry bending him over and buggering the ever-loving daylights out of him. Later, though. First on the agenda is conquering Harry—and erasing Liam’s objective hotness from his head permanently. He throws himself forward, landing with his palms on either side of Harry’s hair halo.

 

“Louis,” Harry rasps, but fuck if Louis knows why because he’s already got his lips on Harry’s. It’s not gentle, it’s not a display of the perfect technique honed from years of one-night stands. It’s possessive and demanding, a little sloppy, and it makes Harry whine low in his throat. All in all, Louis would call it the best kiss ever. Right after that first kiss in his office.

 

Louis pulls away long enough to tear his undershirt over his head and send it sailing across the room. He hears the tinkle of glass knocking against glass, but he doesn’t pause to consider any damage he may have inflicted.

 

“You have tattoos,” is the first thing Harry has managed to say since that whole non-unionized syllable debacle and it distracts Louis for a second. He glances down at his own chest, where Harry’s hand has come up to rest over the words etched just under his collar bones.

 

“So do you,” Louis says, touching his fingers to the anchor decorating his left wrist. He moves along to the collection of smaller images near the anchor, but he doesn’t have time to wonder what they are or what they could possibly mean. “I’m not surprised. Are you?”

 

“Yeah,” Harry nods, but his eyes are transfixed, following the trail of his fingertips to Louis’ right shoulder, over the heart and the stag, and down, pausing ever so often to circle an image that catches his eye. “You surprise me every day.”

 

“Sorry?” Louis offers, a little breathless from Harry’s furrowed-brow-intensity as he studies the art on Louis’ body.

 

“Don’t be,” Harry says, flicking his eyes up to Louis’ for just a second before returning to his visual exploration of Louis’ body. A hand comes up to stroke the center of Louis’ chest, from sternum to belly button. “I love it. It makes me want to slam you into a wall and _take_ you.”

 

“Holy cows,” Louis whispers and lets his head fall back as Harry’s questing fingers play with his belt. It’s quick work for him to open the belt and pull it from its loops. More glass tinkles as he tosses the belt to the side. When he returns to work on the zipper and button, Louis can’t help but push his pelvis forward, closer to those hands. “Holy _cows_.”

 

“This can’t be a one off,” Harry says in a voice that quavers and clicks in his throat. He’s mastered the zipper and reaches inside, sliding both hands along the waistband until he can cup Louis’ hips and push him tighter into his groin. “Louis, this can’t be a one-night stand. I need more time. I cannot possibly do it all tonight. I need _more time_ with you. Please.”

 

“Sweetheart,” Louis opens his eyes and leans forward again, balancing himself with palms over the birds on Harry’s chest. Harry’s eyes are a violent mixture of green and black, like hot tar dropped in the middle of a meadow. “Who said _anything_ about this being a one-time event?”

 

“But you,” Harry pants, squirms, as Louis drags his fingernails down to scratch across Harry’s nipples. Louis spies two extras further down Harry’s chest and is captivated. “You don’t do repeats. Liam said.”

 

“ _Fuck_ Liam,” Louis says—was that a growl—and lurches forward to capture Harry’s full lower lip between his teeth, grinding and rolling it until Harry whimpers and plunges his hands down the back of Louis’ trousers. And as Harry’s hands spread across his arse cheeks—as he discovers how perfectly they fit in the cup of his palms—Louis has a moment of clarity: he wants Harry for more than just this.  He shoves the thought aside and wiggles down Harry’s body until he’s hovering over his knees. He wants him naked immediately. He wants his mouth filled. “Come on, come on, take these off. _Off_.”

 

“Wait, wait,” Harry scrambles, his legs flailing as much as possible between the cage of Louis’ body. “Louis, wait.”

 

“I’m done waiting,” Louis says, tugging at Harry’s waistband. He notes the lack of pants beneath, but his focus is laser-tight; he can spare no time in teasing about the commando situation.

 

“Stop, wait!”

 

“Are you telling me to stop because you don’t want this?” Louis asks, stilling his anxious hands and nailing Harry with an intense gaze. “Or because you’re nervous?”

 

“I do want this,” Harry is quick to confirm. He licks his lips and darts his eyes around the room. “I’m nervous. I need, like, a minute.”

 

“No,” Louis says and returns to his original task, tugging at Harry’s jeans ferociously. “We both want this. Your nerves are of no consequence to me. I’m not asking you to do anything but lie back and think of England.”

 

And yeah, okay, that’s totally a sex foul and Louis will apologize for it later, but for now, he’s finally freed Harry’s cock from the confines of his jeans and—wow. It’s big. He _knew_ it was big, what with the frotting against his office door, but he hadn’t realized it was _that_ big. He’s not sure that it will fit in his ass; he’ll have to consult porn later to figure out if he can DIY it, or if he’ll need medical intervention—whatever, not the right time. For now, he wants to try to swallow the whole thing down.

 

“Fuck Eng—” Harry stutters out. His hips lift off the bed in perfect synchronicity to Louis’ downward descent. Louis lips part and Harry’s dick slides across his tongue and taps against the roof of his mouth. It’s too much all at once, but Louis chases it as Harry’s hips hit the bed again. “ _England_ —Louis—”

 

Louis slams his hands down on Harry’s hips and pushes him deep into the mattress. He’s never been one to overly enjoy giving blow jobs; they have always been a means to an end, a stop-gap measure if you will, the first stop on the train to his dick in a willing ass. And, honestly, it’s only been, like, three willing asses.

 

His opinion is changing in real time though. Harry’s dick is pressing against Louis’ soft palate, flirting with the cavern of his throat. He shifts on his knees to change the angle and Harry’s dick slips down his throat and Louis’ nose hits the coarse curls of Harry’s groin. Beneath him, Harry bellows and fights to lift his hips. Louis swallows and then swallows again. It’s a fine time to discover his lack of a gag reflex, truth be told.

 

“Louis, Louis, Louis,” Harry yells, the force of it cracking his voice. He presses his palms into the mattress by his hips to get more leverage in his attempts to fuck into Louis’ mouth. “Christ! Stop, stop, stop!”

 

But then Harry’s hands are buried in Louis’ hair, shoving his head down in lieu of fucking his hips up.

Louis’ eyes roll back and his brain shuts off. He can feel his tongue lengthen and flutter against Harry. He can feel his breath stuck, no way in and no way out around the absolute girth of Harry. But he doesn’t try to break free, doesn’t even think about breaking free. His vision goes a touch spotty and dark. He’s flying.

 

“Christ, Louis,” Harry wrenches him back by the handful of hair and air floods into his lungs. It’s disorienting and he coughs. “What the fuck?”

 

“Sorry,” Louis gasps and shakes his head at his folly. Who _exactly_ was he? He didn’t lose himself like this, not ever, and certainly not so easily. It’s been less than ten minutes and he’s already floating away, ready and willing to collect everything he can take. He craves more and more. “Sorry.”

 

He’s already leaning back in, mouth open, but Harry’s large hands are on his shoulders, holding him at bay. When Louis looks up to demand to know why, Harry’s eyes are a mixture of wild and curious. The scrutiny makes Louis’ skin itch. He tries again, pushing against Harry’s hands.

 

“You liked that,” Harry says, not even bothering to uptick his voice into a question mark.

 

“You didn’t?” Louis asks sarcastically, once again straining to get his mouth back on Harry tout suite. “Come on.”

 

“I think,” Harry says, lifting one hand to draw an index finger over Louis’ bottom lip. And Louis spends a million seconds filling in the blank before Harry continues: they should stop; they should do it again; he should let Harry fuck his mouth; they should move to fucking immediately; anything; everything; just say it, Harry. “That you want _me_ to fuck _you_.”

 

Oh. That wasn’t in Louis’ perfectly crafted list of options, but yeah, okay. He’s never let a man fuck him, ever. He likes to keep tight control at all times. Which, okay, he’s maybe started losing some of that control to Harry, even before this moment. He has been grappling for control, hasn’t he, since their first meeting. And he’s never really gotten a handle on it, has he? Harry keeps finding ways to tilt his world and keep him off balance. If he’s honest with himself—and surely he should be—he finds it a rush, relinquishing the reins. Not that Harry has fought for control. No, really, it’s the opposite of that. Not the _opposite_ , exactly, but it’s not a fight from Harry. It’s just that Harry _has_ control. Does he even know he has control? Louis wagers not.

 

Well. Maybe he does now. That may have been a miscalculation on Louis’ part.

 

“Louzza,” Harry croons, hooking his finger behind Louis’ lower teeth and tugging his face forward, closer to his dick. Louis whimpers and tears sting his eyes. He doesn’t feel like crying, but he knows the tears are coming. What the fuck for?

 

“Okay then,” Harry says, and Louis isn’t sure what that means, what decision the other man has reached, and he can’t ask because Harry still has his finger hooked in his mouth. Louis is held captive, suspended in time as Harry takes his time in moving again. When he does, it’s to take his other hand off Louis’ shoulder, but when Louis lurches forward, the hand returns: “No.”

 

It’s not the word that freezes Louis. Harry had begged before, hadn’t he, for Louis to slow down, for Louis to stop, but he’d disregarded those pleas. But this time, it’s not a plea; it’s an order. And somehow, Louis responds. It’s shocking, to him, since he spends the majority of his life _giving_ orders instead of taking them.

 

He waits. He knows, deep down, that he will wait for as long as Harry wants. That knowledge is his power, the key, and his pathway into a new kind of freedom. He’s dizzy again, but strangely focused.

 

Harry’s hand moves again and Louis stays exactly where he is, even though the muscles in his thighs are burning in their current position, not exactly lying down and not exactly kneeling, but somewhere in between. He watches Harry carefully, drool gathering around the finger holding his mouth open, but not attempting to swallow the moisture down.

 

And then Harry is lifting his dick, feeding it to Louis, using his finger to pull his face down onto it. Louis’s eyelashes twitch and flutter shut, despite his overwhelming urge to keep them open, to watch.

 

“I’ll take care of you,” Harry says, finally unhooking his finger, running the wet digit across Louis’ cheek and cupping the back of his neck. His breath catches in his chest, but his voice doesn’t falter. “Don’t worry. You just suck my cock, Lou. I’ve got you.”

 

Louis whimpers again and he has a moment of hesitation. He should be the one guiding Harry through his first gay sex experience. He has the know-how and the wherewithal. Harry had been so shy about kissing him in the office. It’s not fair, he has to make this good for Harry. He struggles to get free, tapping on Harry’s thighs urgently.

 

“Are you okay?” Harry asks, loosening his hold on Louis’ neck.

 

“I shouldn’t—I mean,” Louis pushes fully onto his knees. He hides his eyes behind lowered eyelashes. Where is cocky, confident Louis Tomlinson, first of his name, who deals in millions of dollars with the air of a man buying shoes at a Payless BOGO Columbus Day sale? That Louis seems a distant memory. “I want to make this good for you. I should top.”

 

“Should you?” Harry’s eyebrows creep up. He props himself up on his elbows and curls up the right side of his lips in a darling—and predatory—smile. “Because I disagree.”

 

“But you’re nervous,” Louis says. “You’ve never been with a man before.”

 

“I’ve never been with a man before,” he agrees. “But I know what you need. I know what I want. Plus, I may have done some research in preparation of tonight.”

 

“Research?”

 

“I used your LexisNexis account,” Harry jokes and Louis’ laugh is startled right out of him. He can only imagine the results Harry got by typing the keywords ‘gay sex’ in the legal research behemoth. And he seriously hopes Harry did not actually do that on his account; he’s pretty sure his junior associate uses the same account. “So how about you stop fighting me on this, yeah?”

 

Louis gives in to a moment of indecision. On one hand, he has a reputation to uphold. Not that he intends to go bragging at the water cooler over this particular W. And he’s guessing Harry won’t be trumpeting the news in the secretary corral on the second floor. So, really, it’s just his reputation in Harry’s eyes that he’s desperate to maintain. He wants Harry to see him as impressive; strong and virile—he wants Harry to admire him.

 

“What’s your safe word, Lou?” Harry whispers up at him.

 

The thing is, his body is screaming to be taken. The pull of it is so strong that he’s nearly drowning in it. His skin is pulsing, throbbing, trying to reach Harry’s hands, wanting him to press deep bruises into his skin, to make his mark. His throat aches to scream in unbridled pleasure—with maybe a skosh of pain, just enough to hold him in check while his mind takes what it needs. And that’s what it comes down to, isn’t it? His mind. His busy, busy mind, so full of responsible thoughts and fragmented attempts at devil-may-carerery. That initial blurring of his busy mind, when he had a dick down his throat—no, no. It wasn’t just some dick; it was _Harry’_ s dick, and that is the thing. It dawns on him, a little slow, that Louis trusts Harry in a way he has never trusted anyone. Like, ever. It’s a strange thing for him, so strange, that he doesn’t recognize it at first. He wants to call it infatuation or maybe the thirst to conquer. But no, there it is, that little piece of him that is simultaneously curling into a ball under the weight of Harry’s stare and preening because of it. He _wants_ something and he cannot name it.

 

“Carrots,” Louis says, because it’s the first word that comes to mind, once his brain is back online.

 

Harry nods, taking it in stride. He lies flat again, reaching out to cup the back of Harry’s neck again, with both hands. “Carrots it is,” he says, and then he’s pushing Louis down, urging him to continue the blow job that had been too quickly aborted. “And if you can’t talk, tap me three times.”

 

Louis lets Harry fuck into his mouth. He doesn’t try to restrain Harry’s hips this time, and Harry takes full advantage of that fact. He is held firm as Harry’s hips settle into an unrelenting rhythm, alternating between two short jabs following by one long, deep thrust that buries him time and time into Louis’ throat.

 

“You’re doing so well, Lou,” Harry pants, lifting one hand to push back on Louis’ forehead, his thumb dragging an eyelid up. “Open your eyes. Look at me.”

 

Louis forces his eyes open, the new angle making the tip of Harry’s dick to bang against his uvula. That, finally, triggers his gagging instinct and he taps Harry’s thigh three times in rapid succession.

 

“Shh,” Harry thrusts one final time and then tugs Louis off, allowing him to cough and shake his head. “That was amazing, Louzza. Amazing.”

 

It’s a rare thing, Louis not feeling like talking. But there it is. He has no words for what he’s feeling. His mind is both as clear as rain water and as muddied as a stormy-day puddle.

 

Harry pulls Louis up, sliding him along his naked chest, and kisses him. The hesitancy is gone, evaporated into the heat of arousal. He shoves at Louis’ trousers, his movements large and impatient, until every stitch is pooled on the floor at various locations throughout the room. He settles Louis high up on his hips and tugs Louis’ cheeks apart. Louis throws his head back and groans loud and high. Yes, yes, yes. “Lube? ”

 

“What?” Louis jerks his head back down, head instantly clearing. No, no, no.

 

“I don’t have any,” Harry tells him. He releases his hold on Louis and gapes at him. “We were supposed to go to yours. I didn’t think—I don’t even have condoms.”

 

“ _What_?” Louis steadies himself with hands on Harry’s shoulders. No, no, _no_.

 

Harry drops his head back onto his pillow. He mumbles out a series of curses and grips Louis’ hips and that will leave bruises.

 

“Get dressed,” Harry says, using his grip to shove Louis off him. Louis topples over inelegantly, rolls to sit, and then bounds to his feet. He doesn’t even think to deny the order. “Your place is ten minutes away, yeah? _Get dressed now_.”

 

It takes less than two minutes for both of them to throw on what clothes they lay their hands on. Louis ends up in a mixture of his suit and Harry’s pajamas; he doesn’t know what Harry wears, all he can focus on is the floor. He feels needy and is ashamed by it. His weakness is no longer okay, not with clothes on.

 

“Hey,” Harry stops their progress out of the bedroom with a hand on Louis’ forearm. “Wait.”

 

So Louis waits. He twists his head, avoiding Harry’s eyes.

 

“Look at me.”

 

“I can’t,” Louis admits on a shaky sigh. “Not right now. Let’s just go.”

 

“This is okay,” Harry says, pulling Louis into his arms. “What you want is okay. I want to give it to you. It doesn’t make you weak. You know that, right?”

 

“Please don’t.”

 

“Have you never…?” Harry trails off, but Louis knows what he means, although it could a couple of things, couldn’t it? Has Louis ever taken it up the ass? Has he ever been dominated? No on both fronts, then.

 

“Never,” Louis confirms. He’s never asked for this—either thing. Hell, he never knew he wanted it.

 

“I have,” Harry says softly, rubbing his chin over the crown of Louis’ head. And ain’t that some shit? Even if he’s not sure which thing, precisely, he’s done before. Louis is boggled by this bit of information. His sweet, shy secretary is nowhere to be found in this moment. “A couple of years ago, with a girlfriend. If you trust me, I can make it so good for you. I know you’re going to be so good for me.”

 

“I don’t know how,” Louis says and there’s not much internal monologue to go along with that confession. It is what it fucking is. “I’m not—I’m not _good_.”

 

“Don’t say that, Lou,” Harry says, squeezing Louis’ upper arms and giving him a little shake. “You were so good, taking my cock so deep. You’ve pleased me so much already. Let me take you apart and show you how good you can be.”

 

“I don’t want to call you Daddy,” Louis blurts out. They are talking about Louis submitting to Harry, he gets that and wants to be clear that he has limits, even if he’s not crystal on what all of those limits are.

 

“Call me sweetheart,” Harry answers. “I like that a lot. Or Hazza. I like that one, too. Just, come on, let’s go to yours. I don’t know how much longer I can wait to be inside of you.”

 

Louis nods against Harry’s chest and pulls away, allowing himself to be steered and guided out Harry’s door, down to the lobby, and back out to his car. Harry has to leave him momentarily to run back up the stairs to grab the car keys from the living room floor, but he returns, panting slightly from the flat-out run he’d utilized in the errand.

 

The drive to Louis’ flat is filled with Harry’s quiet praise and whispered promises.

 

The doorman for Louis’ building maintains a professional demeanor as he greets the disheveled men who stumble through the lobby door, shell-shocked and flushed, clutching each other so that their fingers are white and trembling. The ride up the private elevator leading to the penthouse level is made in silence. They keep their eyes on the old-fashioned arrow that ticks up as they advance and when it dings and the doors open, they move in synchronicity.

 

The door opens only after Louis lets Harry take the keys from his shaking hand. And then they are moving, dropping clothes and making it through the open-plan living room and into the bedroom in a flash. It’s happening too fast, Louis thinks, as he falls to the bed beneath Harry’s gentle push.

 

“Lube?” Harry asks again, casting his eyes to the bedside table and then making his way toward it, not waiting for Louis’ answer. It’s there—of course it is—and Harry snatches it up along with a condom. Louis watches him, held hostage by a wave of nerves and desire. When Harry turns back to the bed, he stills, eyes traveling over the expanse of golden skin on display to him. He looks stunned, like he hadn’t realized that Louis would be naked for this. Louis makes a jerky motion, torn between pride at his body—look, he knows his body is a temple of hot—and the overwhelming sensation of being studied so intensely. “You’re gorgeous.”

 

Maybe it’s the worship in Harry’s eyes or maybe it’s the snapping of the tension coiling in his gut, but Louis lets go at last. He is defeated, conquered, vanquished. It’s freeing, releasing the last stronghold on his control.

 

“Fuck me, Harry,” he says, his voice even and sure.

 

Harry drops to his knees on the floor at the edge of the bed, reaches out and tugs Louis toward him, until his butt is centimeters away from dropping into the air. He positions Louis’ legs so that his feet are flat on the mattress, knees bent, leaving Louis open and exposed in a new and thrilling way.

 

“I want to you to talk to me,” Harry says and Louis can hear the cap of the lube open. His heart thuds and his palms sweat where they are wrapped around his duvet. He cannot fathom the ability to say one word, not right now. “I want to know when I make you feel good. And I _need_ to know when I don’t. Carrots, right?”

 

Louis nods frantically.

 

“Lou, tell me.”

 

“Yes,” Louis grits out. And then his body moves without direction, his hips pushing up into the air and curving his lower back so that his ass thrusts toward Harry. “Please, Harry, please touch me.”

 

Harry uses one hand to prise Louis’ ass cheeks apart so he can make a swipe a firm finger over Louis’ hole. “Christ,” he says and does it again. “Louis, look at you. I had no idea. _No_ idea.”

 

“Oh my god,” Louis whines when Harry runs his finger tip around his rim, firm and unrelenting. The feel of it is indescribable, but he tries anyway. Like a kitten nose brushing over his nerve endings. Like the static energy produced from rubbing a balloon on his hair. Like the first taste of pumpkin spice anything in early autumn. “Harry, oh my _god_.”

 

Harry takes his time, flirting with Louis’ rim, his touch relaxing the tight muscle with each pass until finally— _finally_ —he is able to urge the tip of his index finger in. Louis isn’t sure about the feeling; it’s weird and uncomfortable, but Harry’s not letting up, twisting and working his finger deeper and deeper. There has to be more, there has to be something good yet to come and—Jesus! A second finger has been added and he strains against it.

 

“Shh,” Harry soothes, petting one of his thighs. Louis considers objecting to being petted like a spooked horse, but there’s a curl of sensation that is bordering on delightful, so he gulps down air and expels it as a moan. “That’s it, sweet boy, that’s it.”

 

No one has ever called him sweet in his life. He’s chasing that sensation, wanting the bordering delight to turn to delight full stop. He scoots his hips down on the bed and there it is. “Harry, yes, yes, there, yes.”

 

Louis thinks of thanking Harry for his thorough research when his fingers curl and press directly against his prostate, a feat he’d only heard about and never accomplished with himself. His arms flail out across the bed, grab the duvet and yanks, nearly cocooning himself and Harry in the material. He thinks he’s yelling, his throat feels like he’s yelling. He _should_ be yelling, Christ almighty and Judas besides.

 

“Are you ready?” Harry’s voice floats up to Louis, even while his fingers—is there three now?—corkscrew and scissor. “Please be ready, Lou. Are you ready?”

 

“Fuck me,” Louis begs, fighting to push the cotton of the duvet away from his face. And how the fuck did the duvet get involved anyway? “Harry, Harry, fuck me, now, now, _now_.”

 

Harry pulls his fingers free, which causes Louis to cry out in anguish. There’s a rip of foil, a woosh of lube, a tight groan from Harry as he clambers to his feet. Louis’ bed is perfect height, really, even if it’s a bit too tall and bothersome on late nights after too many glasses of wine. It’s perfect for this though; Harry stands and his groin is at the _perfect_ height to press into Louis. So he does. It’s slow, at first, his girth more than his fingers could prep Louis to take. But now that Louis has had a taste of the delight, he is willing to wait through the discomfort to find more of it.

 

“Take it,” Harry whispers, leaning down to mouth along Louis’ skin, wherever his lips land. His curls fall into his face, but Louis sees through the curtain to the flushed cheeks and wild eyes. “Be a good boy and take it. Come on, Lou.”

 

“Oh god,” Louis groans and concentrates on relaxing his resisting muscles. He grabs Harry’s face and yanks him forward to kiss and bite as his mouth. Harry goes willingly, as does his cock, which slips all the way in. He can feel the light fuzz of Harry’s balls resting against his ass and he can’t wait any longer. “Oh my god, it’s in. You’re inside me. Jesus, Harry, fuck me.”

 

So Harry does. He has to figure out how to handle Louis’ flailing limbs and Louis can’t help him with that because he’s too busy flailing and crying out and begging for more and harder and faster. He looks up at Harry, takes in his lovely face, his features blissed out and lax.

 

And suddenly, he remembers his own cock. He hasn’t thought of it, really, this whole time. He has not touched it; Harry has not touched it. Desperate, after this realization, he wraps his hand around himself and tugs half-heartedly. His arms are on fire—hell, his whole body is on fire—and he can’t get the rhythm or the pressure right.

 

“Do you want me to do that?” Harry asks, his voice so deep that Louis wonders if it hurts his throat. He’s got his eyes trained on Louis’ cock, watching it in fascination and a touch of apprehension.

 

“Yes,” Louis answers at once. “Please. I want to come.”

 

Harry reaches out and before Louis can truly prepare himself, Harry’s large, still lubed palm is wrapped around Louis’ dick and pulling with an expertise that has Louis panting out a series of _ah-ah-ah_ sounds that bounce off the walls and assail his own ears. 

 

“You are so good,” Harry rasps as his thrusts take on a frantic, less smooth quality. “So sweet. I want to take a picture of you like this. My sweet boy’s first fuck.”

 

“Fuck, fuck,” Louis yells, somewhere between a shriek and a wail, and comes in three hard spurts that paint his chest and leaves a spot or two on his chin. “Harry, fuck, fuck me, oh god.”

 

“Look at you,” Harry moans and bends forward to kiss Louis’ open mouth. “Best. This is the best. You are the best I’ve ever had. I could fuck you forever.”

 

“Yes,” Louis sighs. His muscles are too loose, too molten. He thinks he might dissolve. “Come for me, sweetheart. Show me how good I am.”

 

With a shout made up of pure release, Harry comes, shoving in deep and staying there. Louis can feel his large cock pulsing, emptying itself into the condom that Louis resents. He wants to feel what he’s done to Harry for himself.

 

“God,” Harry croaks. He drags his mouth across Louis’, both too tired to truly turn it into a kiss, but wanting the connection nonetheless. “I had no idea. No one ever said.”

 

“What?” Louis asks because the words don’t make sense to him.

 

“Fucking a man,” Harry says, but then furrows his brow and shakes his head to clarify: “Fucking _you_.”

 

“A religious experience, eh?” Louis jokes, but can’t quite pull it off because to be honest—and he is too fucked out not to be—it was a religious experience for _him_.

 

“God knows,” Harry agrees. "Amen."


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, um. This is mostly unapologetic smut. Louis wasn't quite finished after the first chapter. There are also lists of Louis' machination. I have added some tags, so you might wanna check those out. Um. Enjoy? I'm just gonna go sit over here...

Waking up is never a gradual thing for Louis. It happens as quickly as the sharp chirp of his alarm clock. He enjoys his life and sees sleep as one of those necessary things, like food and football, so he spends eight hours a night doing it and that’s that.

 

So when his eyes open on Saturday morning, all thoughts of sleep fall away; time to start in on the weekend. The angle of the sun shining through his east-facing window clues him in that it was the usual time—seven A.M. He’s got to head down to Tesco—he’s dangerously low on tea and eggs, the staples of his diet—and pay his monthly bills and make an exchange at his dry cleaners. So busy. He swings his legs over the side of the bed and sits up and immediately freezes. His ass hurts, what the fuck, _ow_.

 

Oh. Right.

 

He twists at the waist and glances over his shoulder. Harry is curled up in a tight fetal position, hands tucked between his knees and his neck craned up so that his mouth is parted. The blankets are thrown away from his body, leaving him bare as the day he was born. His eyes twitch and dart beneath his pale eyelids.

 

Louis waits for the rush of panic and adrenaline that will inevitably propel him from the bed—from the flat entirely. He never lets them stay the night. And he doesn't stay the night. Like, that’s not in his bag of tricks. He doesn’t sleep well in foreign beds with foreign bodies pressed against his, always greedy for more than what he is willing to give. Of course, he has never been wham-bang-pow-knocked out by an orgasm either. A warm flush blossoms all over his skin as he recalls the night before.

 

It had been an orgasm for the history books. The way it had started with a gentle tickle to the soles of his feet and a disorienting throb at the back of his neck. The feel of it changing approximately ninety-three times, going from soft and elegant to violent and messy, as it coiled up his legs and down his abdomen, the two sensations clashing behind his balls and exploding in a frenzy of pleasure and incredulity that had drained him of words, of feelings, of thoughts. And, of course, of come. Sweet Beauty and her Beast, his come had shot so hard out of him—almost like a top-of-the-line nail gun, bang, bang, bang. It almost hurt, it did, like his come had been made of baseballs and glitter.

 

And maybe he shouldn’t be thinking about this because his imagination is quite vivid and has never failed to produce results when applied to sexy-sex times. For instance, right now, his cock is fattening up from his bad metaphors or similes or whatever those are called. He turns more fully on the bed, drawing his legs back up and sitting cross legged so he can openly ogle Harry as he sleeps. He’s got some stuff to think about and he might as well enjoy the view as he does it.

 

The facts as he knows them are as follows:

 

      1. He got _super_ fucked last night. Like, god’s own tit, had he been super fucked.
      2. He liked it. Scratch that. He loved it. Loooooooved it.
      3. He wants to do it again. Hopefully in about twenty minutes, after he finishes his little list and miniature freak out. Because that’s what he’s going to do, right? Probably.
      4. He wants to do it again with Harry. Pretty much only Harry. Duh-doy.
      5. He had somehow turned into—what’s the proper nomenclature here—a submissive little bitch? A nelly bottom? A complete pussy? He’s not sure; none of that sounds like what he wants to call himself. Regardless, Harry had flipped some sort of switch inside of him that made him want to be bossed about and manhandled a bit. (A lot.)
      6. He isn’t even sure if he wants to fuck Harry now. I mean, of course he wants to keep fucking Harry, but not with his actual dick in Harry’s actual arse.
      7. Ok, that might not be 100% true, but his brain is a constant loop of alternative ideas, all of which end with Harry with his obscenely large cock directly up Louis’ (apparently _very_ sensitive) arse



                           a.  The Butter Churner

                           b.  The Elle Woods (revised homo edition)

                           c.  The Glory, Glory Hole-la-lujah

                           d.  The Standing Olaf

                           e.  The Spork (simple, classic)

                           f.  The Flying Buttresses (heh)

                           g.  The Around the World ; and, of course,

                           h.  The Swiss Ball Blitz 

                   8.  So there’s that. He’s a bottom. Okay. It’s nice that he can still learn things about himself. He pats himself on the back for keeping it interesting.

                   9.  Can he just memorialize his shock, here, that Harry is a natural top?

                  10.  And he doesn’t just mean the Harry-fucking-him thing. He means top in the truest, oldest way: Harry could dominate and control with a confidence he’d never    displayed in the workplace. Let it be known (at least here) that his sweet, shy assistant could wrest control from him with a crook of his finger and a slant of his mouth.

                  11.  In that vein, he cannot wait for Harry to show him more of what he’s got. He needs to do some research into this. Should he read _Fifty Shades of Grey_ (again)? No, strike that thought; that book was such shite. Side note: How in the name of fuck did that book outsell _Harry Potter_? The Dude does _not_ abide.

                  12. So he should just talk to Harry, who had mentioned that he had some “experience.”

                        a.  Experience in BDSM?

                        b.  Or in anal sex?

                        c.  Louis hopes it’s both.

                 13. Turns out, he won’t be freaking out. For the time being. He reserves the right to supplement and amend this fact, as in accordance with the scheduling Order entered by this Court… wait, what in the hell is he on about?

                 14.  Oh look, Harry’s waking up.

 

Harry is squirming out of his locked-up position, pushing his legs down and prying his hands from between them. When he stretches his legs slightly out, he can see the red marks where his hands had been sandwich so snuggly there, and Louis wants to put his own hands over the prints to see just how small they are compared to Harry’s. Harry reaches out blindly and tugs the blanket back over himself, sighs, and keeps on sleeping.

 

Louis smiles a little at the ridiculously sweet movements. Harry looks like the most innocent creature on the planet. It’s what had inspired Louis to stalk him like a cheetah after a tasty gazelle, ready to pounce and _destroy_ him. Of course, as per the list of facts, it turns out that his little gazelle, while still tasty, was a Grade A predator himself.

 

Harry hums and sighs in his sleep, snuggling deeper under the covers. Louis reckons he has another few minutes before Harry wakes up.

 

Just enough time for Louis to create a list of important questions to address at some point in the near future:

 

  1. What does this all mean?
  2. Specifically, how does this affect their working relationship?
  3. Are they _dating_ now?
  4. Is there a disclosure form he needs to fill out for HR? (He thinks so; in fact, he thinks he may have served on the committee that had written the form.)
  5. Would Harry be interested in having brunch with him today?
  6. How does his status as a newly unabashed (well, sorta abashed) submissive in the bedroom impact his total dominance in the office/the rest of his life?
  7. Should he really be this calm?
  8. Seriously, though, isn’t this sort of revelation about oneself supposed to come with high drama and protesting too much? Maybe a show of over-the-top masculinity, complete with punching a UFC fighter in the face during a bar fight?
  9. Will Harry be okay with all of these? Maybe he wants someone who is more aggressive, more toppy, more something he clearly is not.
  10. Is it too soon to be assigning roles? It could have been a one-off, like, maybe he won’t like it that way again, now that the heat of the moment is gone?
  11. Except that he can’t quell the gnawing hunger in his gut to crawl on top of Harry and seat himself on that pretty, pretty cock. He’s pretty annoyed by this fact—this does not belong on this list of questions. He makes a note to mentally amend his fact list later.



 

“Hey, there, sunshine,” Harry says, jarring Louis out of his thoughts. He startles, teetering on the edge of the bed before Harry shoots out one of his long arms and grips him by the nearest thigh to keep him upright. “Sorry, sorry, didn’t mean to scare you! You looked so cute, lost in thought.”

 

Louis sort hates and sorta loves that his fount of words has dried up like corn on a stalk at the end of November (or whenever corn goes out of season). He allows himself to smile dopily at the rumpled man gazing up at him with an open expression. There’s sleep in the corner of his left eye, his lips are chapped, and one side of his hair has gone bone straight while the other is a riot of banana curls, but none of that takes away from his beauty.

 

“What were you thinking about so hard?” Harry asks, removing his hand from Louis’ thigh and drawing it back under the blanket. The shifting of his hips hints that he’s tucking it between his knees again.

 

“Will you go to brunch with me today?” Louis blurts and it comes out much louder than he’d intended. Harry flinches from the noise, but that is quickly followed by a smile that Louis accepts as a yes. “There’s this place a few blocks from here that makes the most amazing Eggs Benedict you’ll ever taste.”

 

“You were thinking about Eggs Benedict?”

 

“No,” Louis says, scooting further back on the bed until his back hits the headboard. His heart is pounding, now that it’s time to talk. He desperately wishes he had his Dictaphone in hand.

 

“I wasn’t sure you’d be here when I woke up,” Harry says, swiping the sleep out of his eyes and combing his fingers through his hair. As if he wasn’t changing the subject at an alarming speed. He pulls himself into a sitting position, tucking the blanket around him so that his nakedness is mostly covered. Woe.

 

“I wasn’t sure I’d be either,” Louis says. Honesty is such a load of crap. But. “I didn’t mean to be. But I’m glad I did.”

 

“So am I,” Harry grins. “Last night was incredible.”

 

“About that,” Louis says, cracking into a smile he might would call _shy_ if he could see it in a mirror. A blush has started up in his cheeks and he can’t even really wonder when he started _blushing_ as a matter of course because _of course_ he knows when that started. “Can we…?”

 

“What is it, sweet boy?” Harry lets go of the blanket and slides across the mattress so that his front is pressed into Louis’ side, hot and silky hard. The endearment has Louis trembling and dropping his head to the side, bearing his neck to Harry in a way that he cannot help but mean as a sign of submission. “Do you need to be fucked again?”

 

“Please,” Louis breathes out. His hands reach and grab at Harry’s skin.

 

“No, no,” he chastises, pushing Louis’ greedy hands away. Louis bites his lip and works hard not to whimper. He rolls his head back, baring the most delicate part of his throat. Maybe he should be examining why this is so easy for him, to go pliant and willing. Or maybe not right now because Harry is dragging his index finger across the front of his neck, pausing and pressing against his windpipe. Jesus Christ. “You need to ask me properly.”

 

“I don’t know how.”

 

“I don’t think that’s true,” Harry says, pulling his hand away and looking disappointed. Louis is frantic with the need to make it up to him, to wipe away that disappointment with satisfaction. “Why don’t you try again?”

 

“Please,” Louis says in a shaky voice. He clears his throat and starts again: “Please fuck me.”

 

“That’s a given,” Harry says with a chuckle and a shake of his head. “I want you to ask for what you want from me. What you _need_ from me.”

 

That is a stumbling block. Louis has all the images and longings trapped up in his head, but he’s not sure how to process them out of his mouth. They feel hot against his tongue, nearly choking him on their struggle out. Look, it’s Louis’ _job_ to be able to outtalk other people, but they aren’t in a courtroom; they’re not on a conference call with the jackholes from New York. Right now, he’s laid bare and raw, prisoner to the words that only scare him if they are given flight and volume. He opens his mouth, but nothing comes out. His eyes bug and he tries again, only managing a harsh expulsion of air.

 

“Come on, sweetness.”

 

“I can’t make myself say it,” Louis finally says, frustrated and gesturing to his mouth. He never would have dreamed that he would suffer from sexual repression related speechlessness. Dammit, he is a strong, sensual man with a healthy self-confidence. But. “I want—I _want_.”

 

“I want, too, Lou,” Harry says, pressing closer, nipping at Louis’ earlobe and then staying in place to talk directly into his ear. “Do you want to hear _what_ I want?”

 

Louis nods quickly, bumping against Harry’s nose and lips.

 

“I want to put you in my lap,” Harry says as he presses his hand into Louis’ chest, right where his heart is beating hardest. “And watch you work your way down, stretching yourself out on my cock. You still loose?”

 

“I don’t know,” Louis stammers and strains his head further back, pushing his throat forward. “Please. I don’t know.”

 

“All right,” Harry pulls away and pats Louis’ thigh gently. He gestures toward the plated headboard. “On your knees, legs spread. Hold onto the headboard and don’t let go until I give you permission.”

 

 _Permission_. Louis is going to be given permission. He scrambles to follow the order, not once considering the position he will be in, so open and at someone else’s mercy. Darkness plays at the edge of his vision and he wonders if he is going to faint from excitement. His legs open

 

The mattress dips and moves and then is perfectly still. Louis knows Harry has left the bed and he cranes his head over his shoulder to see where he is.

 

“Turn around,” Harry orders and Louis’ head whips around to face the wall again. He’s glad, for once, that his walls have that annoying popcorn texture, but only because it gives him something to focus on. He counts the bumps in his field of vision. “You do not move. You do not speak. You stay still.”

 

Louis nods. He can hear Harry rip a condom off the strip in his drawer and drop it on Louis’ left. If he strains his eyes, he can just catch it in his peripheral vision. Harry reaches out and pulls his legs farther apart, but doesn’t return to the bed. There is the sound of clothes being ruffled and shifted and then Harry’s footsteps into the en suite bathroom. The door clicks shut and then opens again.

 

“Lou,” Harry calls. His voice is still hard and deep. Louis thinks it’s addicting and hopes to god or whoever that he never, ever uses it in the office. “I’m going to take a shower. Do not move. Do you understand? I want you to be a good boy.”

 

Louis nods. He can already feel sweat pooling in the dip at the base of his spine, right before the swell of his ass. His palms are sweating and his face is blazing red with perspiration dotting his forehead and upper lip. His heart is racing, but his breaths are deep and even. He is calm, he thinks, even with the thrum of anticipation running through him.

 

The water turns on and he can hear Harry’s sweet voice singing a song he can’t quite place. It’s sweet and melodic and Louis thinks that just maybe Harry is a talented vocalist. He is desperate to find out for sure. Maybe he can convince Harry to sing for him one day. One day _soon_.

 

Oh. He hasn’t seen the transcript for the Singer deposition come by his desk yet. That’s no good. Trial is just a month out and he needs to set a hearing on the objections. Shit. It’s that Fiorella jack ass for the plaintiff; that guy takes nitpicking to a whole new level. He remembers now; Fiorella had objected to damn near every question he’d asked the witness. Negotiations are going to be fierce and will require his top-shelf focus. He can’t even fathom the number of emails he’ll receive, harping on every damn word. God, he hates that motherfucker.

 

“Lou,” Harry’s sharp voice snaps down his spine, making him jerk to attention. He shifts a little, his knees lifting one at a time to relieve the stiffness setting in. His muscles are so tight as he waits for what comes next. “What were you thinking about?”

 

Louis shakes his head. He tries to push Singer out of his mind.

 

“Tell me.”

 

“Work stuff,” Louis says. “It’s not important.”

 

“I’m disappointed in you, sweet boy,” Harry says and his voice sounds sad. Louis hates it. He feels like he’s going to cry.

 

“No,” he whines and can’t help it when he pushes his ass out, tilting it up. “Please. I’ll do better.”

 

“Such a shame,” Harry says, laying a palm against Louis’ right cheek, petting it fondly. “I had such plans for this arse.”

 

“Please.”

 

“No, no. Work is clearly more important to you,” Harry pulls his hand away. “Do you want your laptop so you can get to it?”

 

“No,” Louis grips the headboard and drops his head forward.

 

Harry makes a tsking sound through his teeth. “And now you disobey a direct order,” he sighs. “What a bad boy you are.”

 

“No,” Louis’ thoughts have mostly shut down, but his head jerks up again. His eyelids tremble and threaten to close in response to the overwhelming shame he feels. “I am a good boy. Sweet boy.”

 

“My good boy would not be thinking about work while I was in the shower,” Harry says and shuffles around the room, keeping just out of Louis’ field of vision. He hears the chair from the corner being dragged across the room. “My good boy, my _sweet_ boy, would only think about me, about my cock. My good boy would still be hard when I came back. Are you hard?”

 

“No,” Louis says, and then: “Yes. I’m hard. I am. So good. I’m good.”

 

“Were you hard, then, thinking about work and not my big cock?”

 

“No,” Louis readjusts the hold he has on the headboard. His knees are aching and his thighs are burning. He is sweating even harder. Harry’s voice is coming from a lower direction. He thinks Harry is sitting in the chair, at the end of the bed, watching his shame. “You. I’m hard for you.”

 

“You want to ride me?”

 

“Yes,” Louis’ hips jerk forward as far as they could in his awkward spread-leg stance.

 

“Show me, then,” Harry says.

 

“What?” Louis shakes his head as he tries to understand the order. He yearns to comply. He _must_ obey.

 

“Pretend you are straddling me,” Harry directs. “Imagine my dick is in you. Show me how you’d do it. Right there. Right now. Impress me.”

 

Louis gets to work. He drops his ass, tucking his pelvic muscles, and then rises up again, and down, fucking the air and moaning like he’s stuffed full with the best dick on the planet. He circles his hips in tight little circles and throws his head back to gasp and whimper. He grinds down, letting his knees slip across the sheets until he is mere inches from contact with the mattress. Pre-come burbles out and slides down his cock and over his balls, teasing him until he has to thrust forward, looking for any sort of pressure.

 

“Harry, Harry,” Louis sobs. He’s broken. He’s _so_ broken. He is soaring, high above the room, the trees, the stars. He is free. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry, god Harry, I’m sorry.”

 

“What else?”

 

“I’m yours, all yours,” he continues, panting and humping the air with determination. Behind him, he hears the condom packet rip open and tears creep down his face in relief. “I’ll be so good for you. I’m sorry. Yours, I want to be yours. Please. Yours.”

 

“Sweet boy,” Harry is back on the bed, prying apart his cheeks and pushing two fingers into him. Louis cries out, turning his head and mouthing kisses in the air. Harry pushes a third finger in and leans forward, crushing his lips to Louis for a brief moment before wrenching away. “You are mine. No one else has had this and no one else will.”

 

“Sweet boy,” Louis echoes, delirious.

 

Harry pulls his fingers away and immediately pushes his dick in, moving slowly but steadily. Louis gulps and cries and begs. Harry wraps an arm around his waist and one around his chest and tugs until Louis is sitting in the lap formed by Harry’s powerful thighs as he kneels.

 

“Show me,” Harry gasps, guiding Louis into action. “Fuck me, sweetness.”

 

Louis repeats his routine, wringing tortured noises out of Harry, who buries his face in Louis’ neck and orders “come,” just as he sinks his teeth into the tendon. Louis yells. And yells. Louis comes. And comes.

 

Harry’s fingernails dig into Louis’ chest and his waist where he holds Louis upright. He pushes Louis down hard and holds him in place while he empties into the condom. He pants and gasps for breath, resting his forehead on Louis’ shoulder.

 

“Sweet boy,” Louis whispers and he knows it is really a question.

 

“Sweet boy,” Harry confirms, gently lifting Louis off his softening cock and helping him lie down. He makes quick work of discarding the condom and then crawls back onto the bed. He gathers Louis in his arms and tucks him against his chest. “The sweetest, best boy. I’m so proud of you, Lou, you made me so happy.”

 

Louis sighs and feels something odd in his chest. Contentment? Release? He thinks it might be peace.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay! Three things happened in quick succession to cause it: Hurricane Matthew (flood!!), my mother had a heart attack, and then I broke a few toes. I'm thinking this wave of suck is behind me. Thanks for sticking with me!

The smell of bacon is what wakes Louis. Once his eyes are blinking against the sun, he can also hear it sizzle and pop. He doesn’t remember having bacon in his refrigerator, so he figures Harry must have popped round to the shops while he slept, which, okay. He sits up, wincing at the various aches and pains echoing in various parts of his body. His catalog of pain begins in his arse, but also includes his jaw (obvi), his right thigh (what?), his lower back (sure, yeah), his mid back (how?), his abdominals (oh yeah), and his bilateral biceps (yep). He makes it to his feet, swaying and cringing with a sensation similar to a hangover but with the added bonus of an ass ache. Maybe a little hair of the dog is what he needs. Either that, or he should send his unintentional overnight guest (who cooks bacon!) on his way.

 

He stumbles into the loo instead, relieving his overfull bladder and brushing his gritty teeth. There’s nothing quite like waking up with come-mouth, amiright? The mirror over the sink shows a tired face, yes, but also flushed cheeks, swollen lips, and three purplish marks ringing the front of his neck, just about at collar level. As long as he holds his head still, the stiff collars of his dress shirts should _just_ cover them. A little shuddering thrill at the thought of discovery—and the potential discomfort of a tie holding his collar to his bruised skin—rumbles through his body. Honestly, he looks as fucked as America if Donald Trump is elected president in November – you know, _fuuuucked_. He clenches his hands around the faucets, holding tight to ground himself before turning on the water to rinse out his mouth.

 

Harry is singing quietly in kitchen as Louis turns on the shower with a smile. His thoughts are blissfully quiet as he scrubs last night’s sweat, tears, and come from his skin. With each swipe, he feels a little more connected to himself and the world at large. He smiles at the array of half-empty, totally-empty, and mostly-not-empty shampoo bottles lined up along most flat surfaces in his shower, loving everything about even the tiny little hotel-issued bottles he never knows why he keeps. Really, he hasn’t been this orgasm stupid since his first one ever. He grins as he shampoos his hair, humming the melody to “Alexander Hamilton” and swaying his hips to catch the stream of water at all angles. He’s still smiling as he dries off, his muscles relaxed after the hot shower—although his ass and jaw are still tender. He’ll live. In fact, now that he’s genuinely awake and all higher brain functions seem to have returned, he feels bloody fantastic. Like, _fantastic_.

 

With a towel around his waist, he returns to his room where he slips into a pair of soft chinos and a fitted tee. The sizzling of bacon frying has stopped, but has been replaced by the squeal of a tea pot. Knowing that Harry has timed a fresh pot of boiling water widens his smile, making his jaw ache even more acutely. He throws open the bedroom door, bounds down the hallway in bare feet, and skids to a stop at the breakfast bar separating the living room from the kitchen. Harry whirls away from the stove, tea pot in hand, just as Louis throws his arms out wide and belts: “Good morning, Ballllltimore! There’s the flasher who lives next door!”

 

“There’s the bum on his bar room stool,” Harry cuts in, his voice lovely and deep. “They wish me luck on my way to school!”

 

Louis raises his eyebrows, impressed as all hell that he knows Hairspray. Although, really, he shouldn’t be, because Hairspray is a gift from god, praise be to John Waters, amen. “Good morning, Ballllltimore,” he continues, raising his arms higher and spinning in place. “And some day when I take to the floor, the world’s gonna wake up and see—”

 

“Baltimore,” they sing together. “And me!”

 

“You know Hairspray?” Harry asks with a delighted laugh. “Well, of course you do, you just _literally_ broke into a Hairspray song without so much as a by your leave. So.”

 

“Well spotted,” Louis grins and leans over the counter. “Give us a kiss, Tracy.”

 

Harry’s cheeks pinken as he meets Louis over the bar for a chaste, but lingering kiss. He smiles when they part, ducks his head as if shy and reaches up with his free hand to cradle the tea kettle close in defense.

 

“Mother of fuck,” Harry hollers, yanking his hand away from the still-hot kettle. “Ow! Ow, ow, _ow_!”

 

“Oh my god,” Louis hurries around the bar and takes the precariously wobbling kettle out of Harry’s non-burned hand and sets it on the stove before turning back to tend to Harry’s injury. “Let me see—hold still—no, no, let me see.”

 

“I’m such an idiot,” Harry moans, keeping his eyes shut tight as Louis examines his visibly throbbing palm and finger tips. “Is it bad?”

 

“It’s going to blister,” Louis says, leaning forward to blow on the angry red skin. He guides Harry onto one of the tall stools at the counter and goes to the freezer to pull out an icepack. “What possessed you to snuggle the kettle?”

 

“Erm,” Harry coughs and moves his head just enough to let his hair fall over his shoulders to curtain his face. Sneaky little move, that. One that Louis is simultaneously frustrated by and totally enamored of. “I don’t know. I mean you, like, kissed me.”

 

Louis wants to giggle so badly it physically hurts his throat to hold it in. Here’s the man who buggered the daylights out of him the night before—and again, like, two hours ago—thrown into a tizzy of bad decisions (i.e.: hugging a just-boiled tea kettle) by a simple, closed mouth kiss. Oh yes, this is delicious.

 

“Wait a minute,” Louis wraps the icepack he’d been staring at with little hearts and tweeting birds in his eyes with a kitchen towel and presses it into Harry’s hand gently. He’s smiling still—can’t seem to stop, as it turns out. Damn, he just feels _fantastic_. “Are you blaming _me_ for this? Here I am, being nice to my employee, doling out morning kisses, and I get nothing but grief!”

 

“Oooh,” Harry lifts his head to grin at Louis through his teary eyes. The pain must be bad. Which is kind of the point of joshing Harry like this, to distract him. “Are we calling this a workplace injury? Workers’ comp, here I come!”

 

“Oi!” Louis pulls away to press an outraged hand to his chest. “No workers’ comp for unapproved overtime. Them’s the rules, sweetcheeks.”

 

“Unapproved?” Harry purses his lips into a pout. “Is that your lawyerly way of saying it wasn’t good for you? I object.”

 

“Oi _again_ ,” Louis exclaims, delighted by the banter. He likes his banter like he (apparently) likes his men: cheeky and with a bite. And curls. Just, like… yeah. Shut up. And now he’s waited too long to deliver a good comeback, dammit. Waxing poetic about curls and dimples and long-ass, skilled fingers and hot dicks and veritable _acres_ of skin is not good for witty repartee. Or so he’s discovering.

 

“I made breakfast,” Harry says, nodding to the cooktop. “Bacon and eggs are in the oven to keep warm. Just need to pop in the toast.”

 

“Did you go to Tesco while I was asleep?”

 

“I did,” Harry pulls the icepack away from his hand and winces at the bubbled skin at the base of his thumb and tips of his index and ring fingers. “You have shockingly little food in your cupboards.”

 

“I don’t cook,” Louis says with a shrug. He doesn’t bother to apologize.

 

“Hold on,” Harry says as Louis slides the two prepared plates from the oven onto the table. “If you don’t cook, why in the world did you invite me to have dinner here? You said you were going to cook!”

 

“Uh,” Louis stammers and retreats to fetch mugs and milk for the tea. Balls. Busted. He probably shouldn’t confess to the whole ordering-then-plating plan.

 

“You were just luring me here to take my virtue, weren’t you?”

 

The gentle teasing lilt of Harry’s voice rescues him from utter mortification. He busies himself with tea bags and cutlery and sugar bowls, trying to keep from bursting into song. Again.

 

“That was exactly my plan,” Louis nods as he finally looks at Harry. “But I lost the plot early on. Turns out, instead of taking _your_ virtue, I ended up giving you _mine_.”

 

“Yeah you did!” Harry grins and holds up his uninjured hand. “High five!”

 

Louis shakes his head in exasperation, but still slaps his palm against Harry’s. “You’re ridiculous.”

 

“Are you kidding me?” Harry tucks into his eggs like a starving man—which he probably is. The stove clock reads 10:15. “I got more laid last night than I have, like, _ever_. It was, like, _super_ laid. And omigod it was _so_ good. _You_ were so good. Damn.”

 

“Yes, well,” Louis says delicately. “Ditto.”

 

“So we’re doing this, yeah?” Harry asks, pushing his empty plate aside and catching Louis’ free hand with his own.

 

“Doing what?”

 

“Us,” Harry rolls his eyes and jiggles their hands until their fingers slot together. “I told you I wasn’t okay with one night.”

 

“And this morning still wasn’t enough?”

 

“Not _nearly_ ,: Harry says, adding quietly: “Sweet boy.”

 

Louis’ breath catches and then explodes out of him in a ragged exhale. His fingers curl unbidden, clutching Harry’s own and keeping him in place. He had purposefully not allowed himself to think about What Next after his post-coital nap. But now, here’s Harry, nonchalantly asking for more. Louis has never given more, but he knows without a doubt that he will assent to more. If only he can find the words.

 

“Louzza?” Harry prompts, a little crease blossoming between his lovely eyebrows. He looks so lovely.

 

“Are you my boyfriend then?” Louis asks with a smile he hopes is easy and/or breezy. Devil-may-care! Good lord, he’s never been anyone’s boyfriend and he’s aghast at the realization that he totes wants to be. It’s all so juvenile that he may, in fact, puke. That could also be nerves—over asking the boy (man) who had fucked him stupid (twice) to be his one and only. His main squeeze. His steady. His old lady. Just, _his_.

 

“I’d like that,” Harry says and it’s so quiet that Louis almost misses it to his mounting and completely uncharacteristic panic. He thinks he’ll blame it on Harry’s unfair use of ‘sweet boy.’ “I’d like that very much a lot.”

 

Oh thank god.

 

“So no big gay freak out?”

 

“No, I’m good. You?”

 

“I’m good.”

 

“Yes,” Harry says earnestly, grinning so hard that his dimples pop out. “You are.”

 

“Oh, shut it, you.”

 

 **

 

“Good, _good_ morning, Li-Li,” Louis chirps as he enters their little suite of offices and desks. His cheeks are rosy from the thorough snog he’d just engaged in in the loo on the sixth floor—no one but accounting and marketing on sixth, so little chance of being discovered. It helps that both departments are chocked full with women, resulting in a constantly empty men’s room. He’d left Harry down there to (a) compose himself and (b) give a five minute gap in their arrival. It wouldn’t do to arrive in tandem, both flushed and rumpled. “Lovely day, isn’t it?”

 

Liam blinks in surprise and makes a halting attempt to stand up, only god knows why. It’s not like Louis is the queen. It’s possible Liam is contemplating bashing him on the head and taking him to emergency for a full brain scan. Poor Liam. He’s not coping well with this new, friendlier version of Louis. Well, no, not friendlier—he’d always been friendly (maybe overly so if his reputation is judge of such things), but he had never been accused of acting giddy. Whoa there, Nelly, he’s not ready to commit to that sort of strong language. He will concede to happiness, with a rider to allow for amendment to giddy in due course.

 

They’d spent the whole weekend together, he and Harry. They had brunched on Saturday _and_ Sunday, like crazy people. They’d made their way to Harry’s flat for a weekender bag and a garment bag containing a suit for Monday. There’d been no conversation about spending the weekend together; but it’d happened regardless. (They’d also found Louis’ belt on top of Harry’s dresser, amidst knocked over cologne bottles and picture frames. That had led to an exchange of blow jobs, bing-bang-bong.) They _had_ talked about loads of other important things, like how overrated post-1980s Madonna is, or why Cheerwine is an actual thing that exists in the world, and how Louis prefers to write with green ink whenever possible (and why it’s _blue_ ink that’s an acceptable business color—who decided that? Louis insists it should’ve been a balloted issue; he has strong feelings on this subject), also that flavored water is both vile and delicious depending on the occasion, but carbonated water gives one a free pass to punch the douche dumb enough to order it at a restaurant. They also discussed the Brexit crisis and the problems—and benefits—of refugee immigration. They went on to crew socks versus no-shows, colored footballs versus standard white, if Snow White is still a ‘good’ movie, if scented candles are appropriate in weather-related disaster situations, and, of course, what villains do in their down/free time (Harry thinks they have a monthly game night—evil Boggle, evil Uno, and the like. Louis thinks they do performance art in an evil coffee house, e.g.: Starbucks). You know, important stuff.

 

The point here is that Louis had had, in layman’s terms, _fun_. It’s a little disconcerting and he is actively resisting the urge to overanalyze and generally kick up a ruckus in his head. He surreptitiously pulls out his phone while Liam is still opening and closing his mouth at him and clicks into his photos. The last one he took was of him and Harry in his bathroom. He’s got his chin hooked over Harry’s bare chest while Harry grins around his hot pink toothbrush and a mouthful of foamy tooth paste. And look, he _knows_ he’s guilty of first degree lameness (a capital offense), but dammit all, Margaret, he _loves_ this picture. If he wasn’t so busy hiding their relationship from Ed and Simon—and _oh my god_ Liam—he’d have it printed and framed on his desk in a Peloponnesian minute. He scowls at his phone to hide the shit-eating smile that threatens to take over his face.

 

“It is a lovely day,” Liam is saying, although his face is locked in a trepidatious expression. And yeah, okay, that’s fair. Louis will have to look into one of two things—maintaining his swagtastic office persona or slowly integrating a less swagtastic, more amiable persona so as not to send Liam over the edge. And here’s the interesting thing—he’s not sure, but he thinks it’s likely that Liam would prefer the status quo, if only because it’s pretty quo after a few years together. And _honestly_ , it is not like this thing with Harry—this _relationship_ will last forever. He figures it’ll fizzle in a couple of months, after they work their way through the gay kama sutra (question for later: is that a thing that exists? He’ll check Amazon.) and they both start missing pussy. Ugh. He feels so queasy—probably as a result of the numerous time Harry’s had his dick shoved up his arse. “Are you quite all right?”

 

This has to be the slowest progressing conversation in the history of man.

 

“Isn’t it a good morning, Liam?” Harry sing songs as he omes through the door with a spring in his step. He’s almost skipping, dammit, Louis _will not_ smile. “And good morning to you, Fearless Leader!”

 

“Are they pumping Prozac into the ventilation system?” Liam asks.

 

“What, again?” Louis fires back with a quizzical look to the vent over Liam’s desk. He always complains of the AC in the summer and the heat in the winter. Bless his little cantankerous heart (he keeps a knobbing tan sweater over the back of his chair; when he wears it, Louis calls him Mr. Rogers).

 

“Yeah,” Liam follows Louis’ gaze to the vent. “Wait— _again_?”

 

Harry lets loose one of his manly giggles, dropping his messenger bag onto his desk. Louis hones in on the sound like whatever bloodhounds are always after—foxes? Raccoons?

 

“You know what?” Louis asks, shoving his hands into his trouser pockets and ambling across the room. Harry bites his lip and crooks his head; there go his curls again, tumbling over his shoulders. Lord have mercy. Louis has a moment of confusion—he barely recognizes this Harry, demure and submissive. “I didn’t bring you tea this morning.”

 

“I noticed,” Harry says, nodding his head slightly toward the space in front of his keyboard, cleared off each evening in anticipation of the next day’s offering from Louis.

 

“I forgot.”

 

“You _forgot_?” Liam sorta exclaims in wary disbelief. “You forgot… about Harry?”

 

“What?” Louis snaps his head around to Liam and then back to Harry.

 

“You forgot me?” Harry presses a hand to his chest. “I’m wounded.”

 

“No!”

 

“I think you did,” Harry says. He’s not smiling, exactly, but Louis is close enough to see his eyes dance in amusement. “I am devastated.”

 

“No—this weekend was—” Louis bites off his words and battles a fiercely determined blush from conquering territory on his cheeks. “I got busy—I mean—distracted—this morning was—”

 

“You’re losing your touch,” Liam notes as he folds a stack of papers and puts them in a mailer. “Or,” he looks up in wonder. “You’ve given up on Harry. Lost interest when he turned you down?”

 

Louis makes an offended noise as Harry laughs outright.

 

“It shouldn’t even be an issue,” Liam continues, really warming up to the topic—and to Louis’ spluttering silence. “He’s your secretary and a clearly heterosexual man. There are some people you just can’t have, you know, despite your legend. I’m glad to see you’ve come to terms with it. Should make work more pleasant for all of us, yeah?”

 

And holy shit, that was a lot of words. Liam looks downright giddy—which, yeah, join the club. Harry’s face could be president of the local chapter of the Gone Giddy Council, for fuck’s sake.

 

Louis’ stuck. He is eager to puff his chest out and give Liam a loud “nuh-uh”, but… if Liam believes Louis has given up (as if) or failed (double as if), then his level of scrutiny will drop from Code Hellfire to Code No Color At All. The real question is whether or not the cost (read: his pride) is worth the payout (read: Harry). So, yeah, duh, worth it.

 

“I’m seeing someone,” Louis blurts before he can think through all one hundred and seventy-three reasons why he shouldn’t. “Exclusively?”

 

“ _Really_?” Harry and Liam both say, Harry with glee and Liam with incredulity. And then Liam goes, “wow” while Harry goes “is he fit?” which makes Liam go “ _he_? Louis is straight” so Harry goes “ _mostly_ straight” making Liam blink five hundred times and go “mostly?” and Harry ends the exchange with an abashed “oh, uh…”

 

“I’m standing right here, lads,” Louis interrupts after he pulls his head out of his own arse—okay, look, he had been briefly stunned by his underlings’ rapid fire exchange—in part because Harry is the world’s slowest speaker and Liam is, well, Liam, who doesn’t ever want to discuss love lives, unless it’s to chastise Louis _yet again_. “I believe it’s customary to wait to gossip about your boss until after he’s out of ear shot.”

 

“Go on, then,” Harry orders, giving a little wave towards the office behind his desk. “Don’t forget to shut the door behind you. Makes it harder for you to hear us.”

 

Liam gives a little snort and Louis rolls his eyes, but salutes the room at large and carries on to his office—which, for the record, he totally wanted to do anyway, so it’s not like he had been actually dismissed.

 

Louis pushes the door shut firmly, smile still on his face. He gets to work, ringing the Risk Managers at various hospitals to give case updates and answer outstanding questions. Throughout it all, he emails Harry with tasks to complete: conferences to schedule, letters to compose, pleadings to format, etc. It’s a busy day and he gets so caught up in it that it takes a few seconds for him to hear the knock at his door. He calls for the visitor to enter. Of course it’s Harry and Louis exhales in relief, feeling his shoulders relax from somewhere up around his ears. Harry’s got his pink lunchbox in his hands.

 

“Hi,” Louis says, rubbing at his eyes and gesturing him into the office.

 

“Liam’s gone out for lunch,” Harry tells him, flopping into the chair in front of his desk. “Weird, right?”

 

“He used to go every day,” Louis says. “Until he took it upon himself to chaperone me. Then he’d only go if he actually went _with_ my secretary. You know. To protect their honor.”

 

“Guess now that you’re ‘seeing someone,’” Harry throws up completely unnecessary air quotes. “’Exclusively’ he doesn’t have to worry about _my_ honor.”

 

“Maybe he should worry about mine,” Louis says with a wink.

 

“Can we talk about that?”

 

“What, now?”

 

“Yeah,” Harry leans forward, resting his elbows on the edge of Louis’ desk. “Won’t take but a mo’ and I think it’s important. Should’ve discussed it at the weekend, but you kept my mouth pretty occupied.”

 

Louis’ blush is as instant as fireworks. And likely just as hot.

 

“See,” Harry gestures to his face and sighs. “This is precisely why we have to talk. We can’t have you turning red at every turn. Everyone will know in an instant and I gather you prefer to keep this quiet for now?”

 

Louis nods, not bothering to look apologetic.

 

“Yeah, me, too,” Harry nods in return. “I don’t want to be that guy—sleeping with the boss to get ahead or whatever.”

 

“You wouldn’t be the first,” Louis says and then wishes he could kick himself in the balls when Harry’s face turns to stone. “I didn’t. I—”

 

“Is that what you think this is?” Harry cuts him off, slashing his head through the air to stop Louis’ words two ways. “Do you think I’m using you?”

 

“No,” Louis says instantly. “That’s not what I meant.”

 

“But that’s what you said,” Harry says, leaning back in his chair and steepling his fingers together. Louis has a wild thought that Harry resembles a Bond villain. He shakes his head vigorously. “Let’s put a pin in our conversation for now.”

 

“No,” Louis stutters out as Harry gets to his feet and heads toward the door. “We should talk, don’t leave. I’m sorry. I was just being glib. I know you want me. And I want you. Don’t go.”

 

“That’s enough,” Harry says and it’s sharp and it’s commanding. Louis’ mouth closes so fast that his teeth clack together painfully. He watches in silence as Harry turns the lock on the door knob and returns to his chair. “Come here, sweet boy.”

 

Before he fully processes his own body moving, he’s in front of Harry, looking down at his expensive Italian leather loafers. He belatedly realizes that the conversation Harry wanted to have was likely about this little phenomena—his propensity to obey Harry’s ever command. Yeah, that talk should happen immediately. He’s the boss, dammit. “I’m the boss,” he says, jerking his head up to meet Harry’s eyes. He won’t be cowed by Harry’s raised eyebrows or unimpressed line of his mouth. “At work. I’m the boss.”

 

“Agreed,” Harry says. “But right now, we are on lunch. Off the clock. Guess who’s the boss off the clock?”

 

“You are,” Louis is quick to say. _Damm_ it.

 

“On your knees,” Harry snaps his fingers and points to the spot between his feet. And excuse me, but when did Harry become so adept at this? They really, _really_ have to have a conversation about past experiences. Later. Louis falls to his knees with a crack and a wince; that’ll bruise up in short order. “Open your mouth and take your cock out. Quickly, now.”

 

Louis scrambles to comply. Once he’s exposed, mouth gaping, he wraps his fist around his hardening cock, only to have Harry kick it lightly away with his booted foot. “Don’t touch,” he says, “that’s mine.”

 

Harry crosses his arms and looks down at Louis. Louis thinks he looks pleased with the picture he makes and that makes his heart beat frantically, happily. But then he reaches for his lunchbox, stealing his attention away from Louis as he unpacks his sandwich, carrot sticks, and a peach. He places them neatly on the occasional table beside his chair. “I’m going to eat.”

 

Louis makes a questioning noise, making Harry’s eyes snap back to him in open disapproval. Louis drops his eyes and listens while Harry crunches through is carrots and sandwich. His own stomach growls and his open mouth waters. He years to swallow, but opts to let a thin strand of drool slip down his chin instead.

 

“Hungry, sweet boy?” Harry asks and Louis nods, which makes him flame with humiliation as more drool drips down his face. “Here,” Harry lifts the peach, bites into it. He takes the chunk out of his mouth and places it on Louis’ tongue. “Eat.”

 

As Louis chews, Harry pets his face. It’s silent as Harry feeds him piece after piece until the peach is gone. Louis’ breath has deepened and evened out. The stress of the day is forgotten and all Louis can do is focus on Harry.

 

“You are so good,” Harry tells him, pushing his fingers into Louis’ hair, pulling him forward to press their foreheads together. “And I want you. I don’t care if you are a powerful attorney or a street sweeper. What I want is my sweet boy, my Louis.”

 

Louis shakes his head, but he’s not sure why.

 

“Do you want me?”

 

It’s the stupidest question Louis has ever heard. Of course he wants Harry.

 

“Yes,” he says.

 

“You are the boss,” Harry tells him, tugging on his hair to get Louis’ eyes on his. “You are a wonderful boss. I will not challenge your authority in any way during work hours. I swear to you, sweet boy, I will not question you.”

 

“Okay.”

 

“But you cannot doubt me,” Harry continues with another firm tug. “During work hours or otherwise. Do you understand me?”

 

“Yes,” Louis says, and this time it’s in relief. So much relief that he thinks he could float away. “Yes, thank you.”

 

Harry kisses Louis firmly. “Put your cock away,” he commands and waits as Louis does as he says. He’s not even hard, but he _is_ magnificently satisfied. “Get up. Let’s get you some food.”

 

Louis wraps his arms around Harry’s waist and burrows his face into Harry’s neck. “Thank you,” he says again.

 

When Liam returns from lunch, he finds Harry at his desk with his hair up in a messy bun, typing away with his lips curved into a gentle smile. Louis is at his desk with the door open, looking relaxed and—maybe happy? It’s pretty weird and pretty great. Liam isn’t one to ask questions.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for your patience, you guys. I am happy to report that I was able to finish my novel for NaNoWriMo in the allotted time. I've been resting my fingers (and my eyes) from 30 days of out and out writing mayhem. I needed a couple of weeks to reset my brain. I think I am likely 3-4 chapters away from the end of this story, but I am also working on something else already (focus up, Nichy!), which I hope y'all will enjoy as well.

_One Month Later_

“You know I don’t mind,” Louis says as he perches on the edge of Harry’s desk to share a bowl of mixed fruit for breakfast. He selects a pineapple and offers it to Harry, who opens his mouth for it. He loves what pineapple does to the taste of Harry’s semen—eww, he seriously just mentally said _semen_ , for the love of honey bees. God, when did he get so gross so early in the day? “I like Niall.”

“He’s really messy,” Harry says around his mouthful. “He’ll leave his clothes everywhere and eat all of your food. He’s like a tornado.”

“There’s no room at your place for him,” Louis counters. They’ve had this conversation no less than five times since Harry first asked Louis if Niall could stay in his flat for the duration of his two week visit to London. Louis knows his lines. “Plus, if he stays at your place, then _you’ll_ stay at your place. And I refuse to be subjected to two weeks of loneliness for the sake of that Irish menace.”

“He’s not a menace,” Harry defends, despite his attempts— _moments ago_ —to convince Louis that having Niall underfoot would be a complete disaster. “Niall is literally the best human ever created. He’s the reason I believe in a god. Also, fun fact: he recently went back to his natural hair color and he’s looking right fit.”

“Good thing you don’t have a boyfriend prone to jealous rages,” Louis deadpans, biting into a strawberry and looking Harry in the eye. “Because sounds to me like you’ve got a crush.”

“Ugh, don’t be gross,” Harry says. Too late: see above-referenced semen thing. Louis feeds him another chunk of pineapple; see above-referenced semen thing. Harry lunges at Louis, trying to wrestle the fork out of his surprisingly strong hands. It’s probably from all the hand jobs. “You’re hogging all the strawberries. I know what you’re doing—”

“Morning, lads,” Ed breezes into the antechamber sporting a saucetastic plaid blazer and dark grey trousers that would only ever work on him. Louis knows this because he may or may not have tried a similar ensemble on at Harrod’s a few months back. Ed slows to a confused slope as he takes in the scene before him. “Um…”

Harry has the fingers of one of his hands wrapped around one of Louis’ wrists. Their chests are in full contact, with Louis leaning back precariously on the desk’s edge. Harry’s chair is pushed away from the desk and Harry himself is towering over Louis on his tip toes. Really and truly, it’s a more compromising picture than if Ed had walked in with Harry’s mouth on Louis’ dick. Well. Maybe not, but it’s pretty damn compromising and probably impossible to deny.

“Good morning, Mr. Sheeran,” Harry says, hastily regaining solid footing and reaching for his chair.

“Hey, Ed,” Louis jumps off the desk and casually puts the bowl of fruit down. He turns his back on Harry and puts his hands in his pockets, rocking back and forth on his heels. Never let it be said that Louis Tomlinson cannot try to turn even the most compromising situation into—ah, fuck it, he doesn’t even know where he was going with that sentence. “What’s up?”

“I was just going to leave this article for you,” Ed says and waves a _Health Law Journal_ through the air. He uses it to gesture toward Louis’ office. Balls on top of balls. “Do you have a sec? I’d like to, uh, discuss some of the article’s… the, um…”

“Sure,” Louis says, just to spare his friend from having to finish that sentence. Look, he knows they are busted. He just needs to find a way to spin this. And he’s a lawyer, for cripessake, he can spin like a washing machine. “I want to get your opinion on the demurrer I’m preparing in the Gerwe case. Come on in.”

He reckons he’s got approximately thirty seconds once his office door shuts before Ed starts grilling him. He’s got to use those seconds judiciously. Of course, he’ll need to stop wasting those seconds by _thinking_ about those seconds. Jesus Christ, he’s got nothing. He’s going to surrender his license to the Bar, on account of his inability to lawyer under duress.

“So, you’re fucking your secretary,” Ed says, less than 2.3 seconds after his office door shuts. That didn’t take long. But, in all fairness, Louis had had to cheat his way through statistics. He could do lawyer maths—you know, figuring the 33.3% of a contingency contract at settlement, that sort of thing. You know what, fuck maths.

“We were fighting over fruit. That we were sharing. Fruit sharing,” Louis says, clapping himself on the back for his non-denial denial. Very lawyerly. “Unless that’s code for fucking? Damn, Ed, I always knew you were a kinky bastard. Which fruit gets your juices going? I bet it’s mango, you fucking weirdo.”

“Louis,” Ed sighs and drops into the seat opposite Louis’ desk. He’s already got a hand rubbing at his forehead. “I warned you, man. You’re going to be without a secretary. Did you think we were joking?”

“Are you going to fire Harry?”

“Not a chance in hell,” Ed says immediately. “That would open us up to a sexual harassment claim. There’s a position opening up in our Manchester branch. I could probably pitch it to him as a promotion.”

“Why would you do that?”

Ed looks at him like he’s stupid. Like, he genuinely might believe that Louis is stupid.

“You’re fucking him,” Ed says definitively, but Louis knows it’s a direct question.

“We’re dating,” Louis says with a bite to his voice. He doesn’t care for the way Ed keeps saying ‘fucking’ in relation to Harry; it’s offensive, is what it is. What he has with Harry is a damn sight more than sexcapades, and the inference that rankles Louis.

“ _Dating_?” Ed slaps his knee and barks out a laugh that reverberates throughout the room. Louis cringes at the volume, because surely it has leaked out to Harry, who he imagines is nervously chewing at his thumbnail and watching Louis’ closed door. “Nice one, Lou.”

“I’m serious,” Louis hisses. He itches to page Harry or email him to promise him that they are not laughing at him. He’s at work and he’s the boss of all things, but the part of Louis that lets Harry be the boss of _him_ is anxious. “Harry is my boyfriend. We’ve been dating for a month.”

“You—what?”

Louis paces behind his desk, agitated and unable to settle. This is not supposed to happen. He is not supposed to need Harry’s brand of reassurance during work hours. They’ve talked about this more than once, but Ed has knocked him off balance. He turns to face the window behind his desk and takes a moment to slide his finger beneath his shirt, where a thin leather strip is knotted at the base of his throat, hidden by his tie. He’d asked for it, a couple of weeks ago, to help him feel both connected to Harry and as a fail-safe for when he felt at odds. Like right now. He presses the knotted leather into his skin, hard.

“Seriously?” Ed asks, all laughter drained from his voice. “But you don’t date. You _never_ date.”

“Yeah, well,” Louis shrugs, presses against his collar one more time, and then drops his hand. He feels a little better; ready to reconvene his defense. “I’m dating Harry.”

“Shit, man,” Ed exhales deeply. Louis turns back to face his colleague and friend, who is sprawled in his chair looking shell-shocked. “I did not see this coming. Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Probably because of exactly how you’re reacting right now,” Louis says. It’s definitely that, in part, but also because Louis is a little ashamed. Not of Harry; no, never of Harry. He’s proud as hell that Harry wants to hitch his wagon to Louis’. He’s more ashamed of the fact that he’s gone _soft_. He has a reputation and a relationship flies in the face of that reputation. If he’s all soft and loved up, his employees might start thinking they could, who knows, _talk_ to him. About, like, _life_ and _problems_ and shit. “And because it’s a bit cliché, isn’t it? Me dating my secretary?”

Ed gets up from his chair, strides to the door, pulls it open and calls for Harry before Louis can object. Damn but that ginger is quick.

“You wanted to see me, sirs?” Harry says, standing in the middle of the room with his toes pointed in and his eyes worried. He glances at Louis, but Louis is too shocked to offer much by the way of assurance.

“Relax, Harry,” Ed says and waves him into a chair. Harry, ever the obedient employee, sits on the edge of his seat and folds his hands into his lap. He looks fetching today, in his dark jacket with white piping. Proper dapper. “Louis just told me you two are dating.”

Harry’s eyebrows fly up and he nails Louis with a silent ‘oh, did he now?’ that spells trouble for Louis later, he just fucking knows it.

“Yes, sir,” Harry says with a nod. Louis has to give him credit; he’s not blushing and he’s not dropped his chin. In fact, if Louis squints his eyes just so, he’d describe Harry as looking defiant. “Although I am somewhat surprised he told you, since we had decided to keep it between us.”

“I’m sorry,” Louis hurries to say and then flushes when Ed shoots him an incredulous look. “I mean, he asked me directly. I couldn’t lie.”

Harry snorts and rolls his eyes at that, which, okay, fair.

“I didn’t _want_ to lie,” Louis amends, making Harry smile. “Not about you, okay?”

“Ah, Christ,” Ed groans and rubs his forehead again. “This is really happening. I never thought—well, I thought maybe after you lost your hair and got a hump on your back—but not before then. And here it is, happening.”

“You think I’m going to lose my hair?” Louis asks, temporarily distracted from the real substance of the conversation with his partner—and his other partner, ha ha. “And grow a _hump_? I really do not like you right now.”

“Feeling’s mutual, bub,” Ed says. “I really thought, I really did, that hiring a man would make things better, not worse. Speaking of, I had no idea you’re bi. What the hell, man? How did I never know that? I never saw you with a dude, not even in law school, not once.”

“You don’t know my life,” Louis says, but that’s sorta a lie. Ed has heard more of Louis’ TMI-laden stories than anyone probably ever needed to hear. At Ed’s unimpressed look, Louis sighs. “Look, I’ve never been a ten on the Kinsey scale, but I didn’t dip into the lower numbers until Harry, okay? I mean, Jesus, look at him, man.”

“Thanks, but no,” Ed says, nodding at Harry in apology. Harry seems to be working hard at stifling a grin.

“And then,” Louis continues with an exasperated look at Harry, accusing him with his eyes. “He’s all, like, _amazing_ on top of all that hair and those stupid dimples and, you know, that whole body thing he’s got going on. It’s his fault, really. You should fire him for being a workplace hazard.”

“Oh no you don’t,” Ed clasps a hand on Harry’s shoulder with one hand and points an index finger at Louis with the other. “I don’t believe that for a second. There’s no way I’ll ever believe you weren’t the instigator in this. Probably wore the poor boy down.”

Harry makes a move to speak up, but Ed squeezes his shoulder and Louis shakes his head.

“I need to talk to Harry in private,” Ed says with another one of his classic Jesus-Louis-Look-What-You’ve-Done-Now sighs. “Can you give us the room?”

“This is my office,” Louis says, but picks up his phone and starts to leave. He pauses beside Harry to touch his cheek and smile down at him. Harry reaches up and loops Louis’ wrist with his fingers. They look at each other for a second and then Harry drops his hand. “Don’t scare him off, Ed.”

Louis leaves his office and closes the door behind himself. It’s an odd feeling, being ousted from his own office. Liam looks up from his desk, dark eyes curious, so Louis shakes himself and approaches.

“Do you have the binder ready for tomorrow’s hearing?”

“Of course,” Liam swivels in his chair and picks a fat, black binder off the floor and hands it to Louis. Louis turns it, looking at the tidy label on the spine and the perfectly organized index slipped into the clear-view cover. Bless his heart. “Is everything okay with Harry? Are you firing him?”

“He’s not being fired,” Louis says quickly. “That’s not going to happen. Harry’s great.”

“He’s the best secretary you’ve ever had,” Liam says in that earnest way of his. “And you two get along so well. It’s been nice, having him here.”

“Liam,” Louis starts with a sigh. He looks over his shoulder at his tightly closed door and then back at his paralegal. Liam is a good guy; Louis’ right-hand man. It makes Louis uncomfortable to continue lying to him now that Ed is aware of the situation. Louis knows that Liam and Ed are actual friends outside of the office. They go out to pubs on the weekend and watch football and share an enclave of friends that does not include Louis. Not that Louis minds. Well, not much anyway. “There’s something I need to tell you.”

Liam freezes in his chair, staring at Louis like he is anticipating a casual beheading.

“Harry and I are dating,” Louis says before he can chicken out.

“Shut the fuck up,” Liam says. And then his eyes widen along with his eyebrows and his mouth when he realizes who he’s talking to, which is pretty funny, because Louis has never required Liam to speak to him deferentially. Although, Louis can’t think of a time that Liam ever, directly, told Louis to shut up, so that’s new and would probably be fun under different circumstances. “I’m sorry, that just came out. You surprised me. Are you taking the piss? Is this a joke or something?”

“None of the above,” Louis says. “Remember last month when I told you I am seeing someone exclusively? It’s Harry. We’ve been together for a month. Ed just found out so I wanted to tell you myself, since I know you two are friends.”

“I don’t know what to say,” Liam says helplessly. “I don’t know what I’m _supposed_ to say.” And then, because he apparently _does_ know what to say, he continues: “This isn’t good. He’s a great secretary, always on time and never minds helping me out. His work is nearly perfect and he has a good grasp on medical terminology. You can’t just date him, Louis, I need him here. And if you date him and fuck him over, he’ll leave, and they won’t hire you another one, and it’ll just be me to mind the office. Please don’t do this.”

“It’s too late,” Louis says with a shrug and a tiny smile. “It’s been a month, Li, and we’re fine. It hasn’t impacted our ability to work together in the least. You said so yourself, we get along well and he’s doing great. And haven’t I been more focused, too?”

Liam purses his lips together in a vicious scowl. That’s the look he always gets when he knows Louis is right; and Liam _hates_ admitting Louis is right.

“Nothing will change,” Louis promises him as the door to his office opens. He turns, anxious to see Harry’s face so he can read the man’s state of mind. Harry is smiling and has Ed’s arm thrown over his shoulders. Louis doesn’t like that one bit. “Hey, everything sorted?”

“Let’s talk in your office,” Ed says, giving Harry a gentle push toward his desk.

Louis stops by Harry’s desk, where his secretary is blushing and shuffling papers pointlessly. He doesn’t touch him, but he leans down a little to say: “I told Liam.”

“Jesus Christ, Louis,” Harry snaps back. His green eyes find Louis’ unerringly and they are filled with anger. “We will talk about this later.”

Fuck.

He nods and reaches out for his collar.

“ _Don’t_ ,” Harry says darkly. Louis drops his hand at once.

“You’ll both need to sign a form for Human Resources,” Ed tells Louis as soon as the office door is shut again. Louis is exhausted and a low-key trembling has started in his knees. “I’ll take care of notifying Simon. Just be cool, keep any personal issues out of the office. Any disciplinary actions relating to Harry will be handled by either Simon or me, as will all requests for leave. If this goes pear-shaped, you better be prepared for the fall out. Are you sure this is worth it?”

Louis nods. Harry is worth it.

 

**

 

The thing is. Here’s the thing.

Harry has never punished him. Not really. It’s all been about control and Louis has been so happy to give it up, that he hasn’t balked against any of Harry’s rules yet. He likes kneeling before Harry at lunch so Harry can feed him bits of their shared lunches. He likes showering after work every night and fingering himself open on the off-chance that Harry decides to fuck him. He has learned not to hate the fruits and vegetables insist make up the bulk of his diet now. He enjoys the firm _no’_ s Harry gives him when he tries to get dressed on Saturdays—he even enjoys sitting on his couch playing video games naked while Harry’s completely dressed beside him. Yeah, Louis doesn’t really make waves.

But Louis fucked up. He let them get caught by Ed and then compounded matters by telling Liam. And then he left Harry alone with Ed and then Liam to deal with the aftermath on his own.

They had negotiated punishment in their second week together, working with a printed list of limits from the internet. There were more hard limits than soft ones, because Louis is a novice to all of this. They agreed to renegotiate at their six month anniversary—is it still called an anniversary at six months? Monthiversary isn’t really a word, right? God, he hopes it isn’t. If the board over at Oxford actually put monthiversary in their dictionary, Louis might well immigrate to Bolivia. Or maybe the United States; he hears good things about the beaches in Idaho.

“This is a tricky one,” Harry says, calm as can be. He stands across the room, arms dangling loosely by his side as he regards Louis, naked and kneeling on the floor at the foot of the bed. Louis keeps his eyes locked on Harry, as Harry had directed him at the start. “Because you made a decision without me, but it was during work hours. It’s a conundrum, don’t you think, on whether or not you deserve a spanking, sweet boy.”

Dizzying adrenaline shoots up his spine and makes him sway. He puts a hand out to catch himself as he teeters to the side, sliding his knees out from under him. He scrambles to right himself.

“Spanking it is,” Harry says with a sharp nod. His long legs eat up the space between them and then Louis’ head is jerked back by his hair. “Since you can’t even follow a simple instruction to stay on your damn knees. How disappointing, to see you not even try obey me.”

“I am,” Louis gasps. “I fell. I just fell.”

“Did I ask for excuses?” Harry asks, tugging Louis’ hair hard.

“No, I’m sorry.”

He hates this, he thinks. He doesn’t like the way Harry’s eyes are hard or the way his lips are drawn tight in a disapproving line. He wants to squirm away from the hands that have never touched him in anyway other than firmly gentle. He doesn’t want to associate those hands with something as unsavory as punishment.

“Wait, wait,” Louis says, twisting and pulling away from Harry, who looks thunderous at the rebellion. Louis can’t remember his safe word. He _can’t_. “Wait, please.”

“Louis,” Harry drops to his knees in front of Louis, worry erasing his sternness. He reaches out to touch, but pulls his hand away instead. “Carrots?”

“Carrots,” Louis says, relieved to be given the word he could not find on his own. He slumps forward, crossing his arms over his stomach and hiding his nakedness. “Carrots carrots carrots, please.”

“Okay, shh, come here,” Harry shuffles forward on his knees and envelops Louis with his strong arms. He pets Louis’ hair and makes quiet, soothing sounds until Louis relaxes and begins to unfold his body again.

“I’m sorry,” Louis says. His voice is tiny and a tinny, and Louis is too scared to even make a joke about those words appearing in the same sentence. Because he is scared; scared that he has let Harry down and that Harry will leave him. “I didn’t mean to.”

“Hey now,” Harry says, getting to his feet and pulling Louis up as well. He gets them to the bed and pulls Louis into his lap. “Never apologize for using your safe word. It’s there for a reason. Do you want to talk about it?”

“I didn’t feel safe,” Louis says at once. He will always be honest with Harry, even if it hurts like a splinter in the eye.

Harry stiffens under him and Louis is afraid he’s said the wrong thing and he wants to take it back. He wants to eat the words and try again. He’ll get on his knees and he’ll take his spanking, anything to take it back.

“I am sorry,” Harry breathes and then peppers the back of Louis’ neck with closed mouth kisses. His voice is deep and anguished. “God, Lou, I am _so_ sorry.”

Louis doesn’t know how to respond to that, so he just nuzzles himself closer to Harry and lets himself be held.

“How about we just talk about today?” Harry suggests. Louis is hesitant to nod. “I’m not really angry, okay? I was earlier, at work, but that’s just because I wasn’t expecting any of that. We hadn’t discussed it, and then Ed fucking Sheeran was calling me into his office. Well, your office, but you know what I mean. I thought I was going to be fired. And then Liam was there, looking at me with those judgy eyes of his. I felt stupid for being the secretary caught fucking his boss. And that made me mad at you, which wasn’t even fair. I know you didn’t mean for any of that to happen.”

“Can I talk?” Louis asks, because he’s not quite out of the scene. He goes down so quickly, is the thing, and loses himself to Harry. “Do I have permission?”

“Yes, baby,” Harry says at once, maneuvering Louis off his lap so they can look at each other face to face. He pulls a throw from the end of the bed and wraps it around Louis’ naked body. “We aren’t playing now.”

“I don’t want to be punished,” Louis says, twisting his fingers into the end of the throw.

“You won’t be punished,” Harry is quick to assure him. His beautiful face is contorted into sorrow and regret. “Not for talking to me.”

“I meant,” Louis draws in a shaky breath. “I don’t want to ever be punished. Not by you.”

“Oh,” Harry says, blinking in surprise.

“You’re Harry,” Louis says, the blanket covering him giving him a bit of himself back. “You’re soft and lovely and take such care of me. I don’t want you to hurt me. It can’t be you.”

“Okay,” Harry says, even though he looks confused. “I don’t know what that means. Do you want someone else to punish you?”

“Yes,” Louis says and exhales in relief. Harry gets it. Which is good, because Louis isn’t sure he gets it himself.

“Oh,” Harry says again. He scoots back on the bed, putting a solid three feet of space between their bodies. “I suppose—I’m sorry you feel that way. I’ll just.”

Harry stands up and goes to the dresser, where he collects his wallet and keys. Louis jumps to his feet and cries out in alarm.

“Where are you going?”

“I scared you,” Harry says, keeping his eyes averted as he toys with his keys. “And you want someone else. I’ll leave. Thank you for telling me.”

“Don’t leave,” Louis says. All evidence of his submissiveness falls away as he rushes across the room to grab at Harry’s hands. “I didn’t mean that I want someone else, like, all the time. I just—I don’t know, okay? I want—I think I want—”

Harry waits while Louis has a brief conversation with himself. So, look, he’s got this idea. It’s been firmly residing in his spank bank reserve for a while now, but he’s not mentioned it to Harry because it’s hard to drop this sort of thing in casual conversation, okay? Like, how do you say ‘hey, boyfriend? Could you find someone to spank me while you hold me and tell me how good I’m being?’ over morning tea? Right, in Louis’ world, that’s not a done thing. Honestly, he’s finding that asking for anything in the bedroom is not in his wheelhouse. And it hasn’t been a problem, because Harry generally _knows_ what Louis needs/wants and hops to. It’s not that he doesn’t want to tell Harry, it’s that he doesn’t know how.

And that’s a bit shit, because his day job is filled to the brim with his glorious ability to talk and talk and talk. But sex is different, especially when it doesn’t fall into the realm of what people would call ‘normal’ and _by god_ , Louis hates that word. Maybe more than he hates that he isn’t exactly ‘normal’.

It’s a lot to deal with, and he knows he didn’t want to have a big gay freak out when he jumped feet first into a relationship with Harry (and for the record, what the fuck was he thinking with that level of bullshit?), but he hadn’t really talked to himself about a big kinky freak out and now he sees that was an oversight on his part. Like, okay, he’s not really into _pain_ , is the thing. He likes Harry to be in charge and dominate him; he likes to submit and feel, I don’t know, _used_ by Harry. Like, he is the tool and Harry is the artist, or whatever mixed metaphor he’s trying to get at here. But the pain; no, he’s not sure about that. The fantasy is great when his dick is in his hand, but he’s not positive that he could actually bear up under it.

“I don’t know if I like pain,” Louis finally says, which is mostly true. Harry rotates his wrist so that he can link his fingers with Louis’ as he talks. “So I want to try it, but only if you can hold me the whole time. I want it to be someone else who actually spanks me and I want you to talk me through it.”

“Okay,” Harry nods and takes a step closer. “That makes sense. I wish you would have told me.”

“I didn’t really know,” Louis says, keeping his eyes firmly on Harry’s chin. “I’ve been nervous about it, thinking that it was going to happen eventually, but I thought I’d be okay. I wanted to be okay.”

“I’m not disappointed in you,” Harry says, because he is sweet and gentle in his heart of hearts. “We can have a perfectly happy sex life without playing, you know that, right? I would be just as happy to be as vanilla as a Yankee Candle, so long as it’s you and me.”

“I know,” Louis says and pulls the blanket tighter around himself. He hates feeling vulnerable. “Could we not talk about it anymore right now? I’m really worn out.”

“Of course,” Harry says, dropping a kiss on Louis’ forehead. “Do you want me to stay, or do you want to be alone?”

“Would you mind if I say I need some time alone?”

“No,” Harry assures him, pulling him in for a hug. “If you change your mind, I want you to promise to call me. I’ll come back.”

“I promise,” Louis hugs him back. He just needs to clear his head and figure this all out. He is sure he’ll feel better after a hot shower, a bag of chips, and a night with Black Adder. And maybe an exhaustive Google search. “I’ll see you at work tomorrow.”

“Everything will be okay, Louzza,” Harry says as he pulls out of his boyfriend’s embrace. He cradles Louis’ face between his palms and kisses him sweetly. “I’m in this for real, no matter what.”

 


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a short little update, because I love you all and wanted to give you a little holiday gift. Remarkably un-smutty, but there's Niall, so yay! Also, kink negotiation at it's best? Enjoy!
> 
> Also, I hope you all have a happy Festivus/ merry Christmas/ happy Hannukah/ happy Kwanzaa! Or, if you celebrate none of the above, I hope you have a blaringly great weekend. :D

“I want to talk about what happened last time we played,” Harry says as soon as Louis slides into his seat at the breakfast table. It’s been a week since Louis mentioned bringing a third person in to their bedroom and, frankly, Louis had been banking on his boyfriend never mentioning it again.

“Ah, that,” Louis blushes and repositions his plate of eggs and toast.

He may have overreacted, what with sending Harry away. He had _definitely_ overreacted when he’d called Liam the next day to say he’d be working from home that whole day. He just hadn’t been ready to see Harry again, such was the depth of his embarrassment. Harry had sent him a selfie of himself pouting.

Instead of working that day, he’d spent the entire day link jumping around the kink community. The things he learned on Fet Life and the kink sub-Reddit will stay with him for the rest of his life. He didn’t really see himself in most of the posts and articles he read, which was disconcerting. But he felt a touch better, seeing that there were other people struggling to find kinship for their assorted desires.

The thing is: he is firm on the idea that Harry not spank or otherwise hurt him. In fact, he doesn’t want to be hurt at all, really. But what he _does_ want is the praise and comfort Harry offers him daily, but in a more intense and focused concentration. Like, okay, he wants to be hurt and comforted at the same time, like they’d balance each other out, maybe.

But he doesn’t want anyone to join them in bed. Never that. Not that he’s not engaged in many, many threesomes (or moresomes!) in the past, because he totally has. And they’ve been boss as all hell. But Harry is _his_ and he’ll be damned before he shares him with anyone. And vice versa, actually. He doesn’t want to give himself to anyone but Harry. And yeah, yeah, that’s so lame and soppy and he won’t be saying that out loud anytime soon, but it is what it is and all that jazz.

So. He may have compiled a list of doms (that’s a phrase he’s still coming to terms with and has yet to say aloud) in their area who hire themselves out for scenes. Not that he planned on using it or even sharing it with Harry. But he has the list organized according to reviews and ratings left by those who used the dom. He’s narrowed it down to two; one man and one woman. He doesn’t want their hands on him, ever, but maybe a light-handed paddle?

“You still with me, love?” Harry asks, wrapping his fingers around Louis’ and giving him a little shake.

“Yeah,” Louis says with a little huff of laughter. “Sorry. What were you saying?”

“I asked you if you’ve given it any more thought,” Harry prompts and, yeah, Louis hadn’t heard that at all.

“A little,” Louis lies. It’s basically taken over his every waking thought, which was so bad for business.

“You’ve been distracted,” Harry says, which is as close as he will come to calling Louis out on his lie. Harry is too good for this world. “So I thought we should talk it out before Niall gets here.”

“Which is in,” Louis consults his watch. “Six hours. This probably isn’t the best time.”

“I don’t want a threesome,” Harry says, his face set in an adorable look of determined consternation.

“I don’t either,” Louis says at once, flipping his hand to link his fingers with Harry’s. “There’s no way in this world anyone else gets to touch you. Hard limit.”

Harry laughs, delighted. “Same,” he says, and the consternation is wiped away. “So tell me what you need.”

“God, so pushy,” Louis groans, averting his eyes. He really, really hates how submissive he gets around Harry sometimes. Like, he remembers when he was the aggressor and how he could flirt so hard—back in Holmes Chapel he’d nearly had Harry gagging for him. But those days were long gone and sometimes he missed them. Only, most of the times, he really didn’t miss it at all. He liked being stripped of his swagger and left emotionally bare before Harry.

“Okay,” Harry takes pity on him and stands up from the table to wash up. “Let’s talk about Niall’s visit, just to make sure we’re both on the same page. No playing while he’s here, yeah? And keep the collar covered at all times, if you’re going to wear it.”

“Agreed,” Louis says readily. He would miss sitting at Harry’s feet while they watched television before bed, with Harry fingering the collar at his neck. “I’ll probably put it away while he’s here, unless I really need it.”

“Niall is pretty touchy-feely,” Harry reminds Louis. “No getting jealous. It has never been more than friendship between us, and it will never be more than friendship. Remember that.”

“I promise,” Louis says with a hard swallow. That part will be hard and he knows it. He’s never really been a jealous person before—easy when he’d never had a relationship of substance before. He’s finding that he _does_ have a jealous streak—a pretty nasty one, at that, so he amends: “I promise to _try_.”

“There is no try,” Harry says, balancing out his dorky Star Wars reference with a stern look over his shoulder. “I mean it, Louis.”

“Okay,” Louis says and he has to bite back the ‘yes sir’ that sits on the back of his tongue sometimes, dying to break through. But he’s not there yet, and probably never will be. That’s just not what they do. But what they _do_ do is talk, so: “I want to hire a—a _dom_ —to spank me while you hold me and tell me that I’m good.”

The frying pan Harry had been scrubbing clatters to the bottom of the sink, but he quickly picks it up and resumes washing, carefully keeping his back to Louis. And Louis loves Harry for that—not like _loves_ him—don’t be silly—but loves that aspect of Harry, that he knows it’s easier for Louis to confess things like this when he doesn’t have to suffer through the indignity of having his blush witnessed.

“With a paddle,” Louis continues, because why the hell not; he’s on a god damn roll. “But not really hard. And then I want them to leave. No touching, nothing sexual at all. I still want you in control, telling them what to do to me, because I trust you, but I want you to hold me while it happens. Is that weird?”

“Not weird,” Harry says before Louis has even tacked the question mark onto it. He finally wipes his hands and turns to Louis, bracing his hands beside his hips on the counter lip. “Do you have someone in mind?”

“No one we know,” Louis says and Harry gives him a combination shrug/head shake that clearly says ‘no duh.’ “But I found a few professionals. I thought you could have final say on who; maybe you could interview them? We’d have to pay them, but that’s not a problem.”

“That’s fine,” Harry says with a nod, but then crosses his arms over his chest. “With one exception. I’m not making that decision. I agree with the interview, that’s important, but you’ll be there with me and _you_ will have the final say.”

“Okay,” Louis says, inhaling deeply at the prospect of sitting across from a stranger and asking them to beat him. This is not how Louis thought his life would go. “But will you help me decide?”

“Agreed,” Harry says and then smiles. “If you give me the contact information, I’ll set the interviews up for after Niall leaves. Can I kiss you now? I really want to kiss you.”

“Agreed,” Louis says, getting up and tucking himself against Harry, lining up all their angles and curves until they fit perfectly. Harry leans down and presses a soft, lingering kiss to Louis’ mouth. “Does the no playing rule mean we can’t have sex while Niall is here?”

“It’s only a week,” Harry says with a laugh.

“That’s too long,” Louis pouts.

“There’s no ban on sex,” Harry relents. Louis does a little happy wiggle. “But you have to be quiet, sweet boy. Think you can do that?”

“Yeah,” Louis breathes, knees tingling from the nickname. “Promise.”

 

**

 

“All right, you fuckers,” Niall raises his arm, a balled up pair of socks ready to be shot across the room. Beside Louis, Harry pants, his breath blowing the wild strands of his curls away from his face. “Are you ready to surrender?”

“It’s two against one, Niall,” Louis says from his spot behind the overturned couch. He grins at Harry and sweeps his arm out to gather the socks Niall has already thrown at them. “It’d be in your best interest to negotiate the terms of your own surrender.”

“Don’t you lawyer-talk me, pretty boy,” Niall says. Louis hears him shifting from behind the overstuffed arm chair he claimed early on as his fortress. “And who’s socks are these with the stripes and toe holes?”

“Mine,” Harry says, peeking over the edge of the couch to scan the DMZ. It’s littered with knocked over beer bottles, operative reports from the Peterson file (thank god they are copies), crisps, and socks that came unfurled when hurled. Heh, that rhymed. “Keep your mits off those!”

“My mits are wearing them right now, look,” Niall sing-songs. Harry and Louis both edge up until their noses are over the back of the couch to see Niall waving a hand—indeed wearing Harry’s toe sock. They exchange baffled glances, and in that moment, Niall heaves a sock ball with his other hand and nails Harry in the temple. “Ha! Gotcha!”

Louis laughs merrily, despite the scowl on Harry’s beloved face. The sock fight had been _Harry’s_ idea, after all. Louis had resisted at first, wanting to impress Niall with his smarts and seriousness—that had been a misstep, he’ll admit to that.

“Okay, okay,” Harry stands up and holds his hands up like it’s a stick up. Louis tugs on the bottom of his tee shirt to get him back down, but Harry swats him away. “Truce! Truce! I’m starving and need a drink.”

“Pussy,” Niall snarks.

“That’s downright offensive,” Harry says, plonking his hands on his hips. “To humans in general and women in particular.”

“Oh my god,” Niall gets to his feet to show Harry his rolled eyes. Louis takes the opportunity to lob a monster sock ball—he had used four pairs to create it—directly into his gut. “Holy shit—you’re a cheat! Harry, your boyfriend is a _cheat_.”

“Well,” Harry looks supremely proud. “He _is_ a lawyer. So, you know, _duh_.”

“Hey,” Louis says, petulant, but not really.

“Kidding,” Harry says, reaching down to pull Louis to his feet. “You know I love you.”

But Louis _didn’t_ know, you see. He freezes, eyes opened so wide that he feels them drying out. From across the room, Niall coughs and makes some comment about the kitchen and then he disappears.

“You love me?” Louis asks into the dead silent room. “Like, for real? Or was that a joke? It was probably a joke, yeah? I mean, it was funny, ha ha, I get it. Great joke.”

“Not a joke,” Harry says, his voice gone all gruff and raspy, like it gets when they are having The Sex. Which… oh. Maybe it’s not Just Sex. Maybe it’s Making Love? What’s with all the capital thoughts? This is not what he should be thinking about in this moment. He should be thinking about declarations of love and what this means for his 401(k) and if he has enough toothpaste for the weekend and where they can get a kitten with those weird different colored eyes and maybe if there’s an apple orchard nearby. What? Focus up, Tomlinson. “I do. I love you. Very much.”

“Oh.”

“It’s okay if you don’t love me back,” Harry says and then blushes in a way that reminds him of the first week they worked together and Harry fumbled all of his words. “I mean, I want you to love me back, obviously, but you don’t have to love me right now. That sounds stupid. I guess, I mean, do you love me?”

Together, they are literally the least succinct couple in the world. The entire world.

“Of course I do,” Louis says, because _of course he does_. “I love you.”

They grin at each other, both holding sock balls, and not knowing exactly what to do next. A kiss seems like it’d make sense, but Louis can’t stop smiling and he can’t seem to move. He is, literally, the happiest he can remember ever being.

“Now that that’s settled,” Niall calls from the kitchen, which isn’t divided by a wall or anything—stupid, trendy open-plan apartment—so he’s heard it all. Not that that really matters. Harry likely would have told him eventually. “Can we talk about Chinese food?”

“Order something for us, too,” Harry says, reaching into his back pocket and pulling out his wallet. He drops it on the top of the upended couch. He hasn’t taken his eyes off Louis. “There are menus in the drawer by the refrigerator. I’m going to go fuck my boyfriend, who I love.”

“Christ,” Niall groans, bending low over the counter top and shaking his head. “Fine. But I’m turning the TV up to drown out your sex noises.”

“Remotes are beside the TV,” Louis says as he walks backwards, his eyes firmly on Harry. He should probably feel sheepish or embarrassed by Harry announcing to Niall that Louis is about to be buggered, but you know what, getting buggered by Harry fucking Styles is a god damn _honor_ and he’ll take out a billboard announcing that fact. After he gets the aforementioned buggering. “I like General Tso’s Chicken. Extra rice.”

And then, he finally reaches out to Harry, grabbing him by the wrists and running down the hall to his bedroom. Harry slams the door behind them and then, it is game on. And clothes off.


End file.
